So there I was, trimming my daughter’s hair, marveling that this creature I used to carry around in my arms (because she would scream if I tried to put her in a stroller) would be starting high school in a matter of days.

“Mom,” she interrupted my thoughts. “Remember when I was little and I didn’t want to cut my hair and people would ask me if I would ever cut it and if I did whether I would donate it and I was always like, ‘No way would I donate my hair because then what if the person who bought it committed a crime and it was MY hair at the crime scene and then I would have to go to prison and there are no books in prison,’ but I couldn’t say that, so I just said, ‘no.’”

Um…? “I remember when you didn’t want to cut your hair, but I did not know all the rest of that,” I replied.

When she left my room, I heard her whispering with her sister in her own room: “I saw the pictures of the Airbnb house. It has two beds in our room, and one is higher than the other. When we go on our trip, can I have the taller bed? Because I’m bigger, and it will hurt my back to get out of the lower bed.”

“Sam!” I yelled, “It is not your turn to choose.”

“I know. I’m just asking. That’s all.”

More like bullying and conniving. And as soon as I heard the end of that conversation, she began asking each of us, “Did someone try to start my laptop? Because now it says it is going to shut down due to too many failed attempts.”

“Not I,” said the mom.

“Not I,” said the dad.

Little sister did not say anything. At first.

Then… “I tried to open your computer because every time you call me into your room, you show me something on your computer. I thought you wanted to show me something on your computer, not tell me which bed you wanted on vacation, and I was waiting for you, and you didn’t come for a long time, so I thought I would just open it. How was I supposed to know you CHANGED your password?”

Mean faces and slamming doors ensued. Words may also have been exchanged.

When they were little, I used to dream of the day when they would be able to talk, so I would know what was wrong. Now I know what’s wrong, and I long for the days when they could not talk. When they just needed cuddles to be comfort

ed.

They say parenthood doesn’t get easier; the problems are just different. But our pediatrician once told me, “Oh, no. That’s not true. It gets a lot easier when they are older because you will be getting enough sleep. It is easier to deal with problems when you are not exhausted like when they are babies.”

And I think she is right. The thing is, my kids are starting ninth grade and fifth grade. I’ve had about six good years of sleep. I am ready.

Let the school year begin.