"Mom -- He's shaking his butt at me!"

My God. I'm a parent.

The above remark (the butt remark) comes at top volume from the side of the house where my husband has cleverly installed an outdoor shower. An outdoor shower which is my favorite room in the house. Perfect in a misty, pearly morning, with a cup of hot black coffee, dew-laden spiderwebs and the citrus-y smell of honeysuckle. Sublime after a run, with a cold beer on the shelf built into the fence, with the hot sun beating down on the slate. Peaceful late at night with votives flickering all around and the night sounds of crickets and the mysterious rustle of hedge-creatures.

It is also one of my children's favorite places -- after the beach or on any mild evening after dinner in preparation for pajamas and bed. In this instance the warm water and twilight surroundings do nothing to quell their snarky argument, which ends, apparently, with my son shaking his butt at my daughter. Outrageous. They can argue about anything. I don't recall arguing very much with my little brother. Patrick and I were and are reassuringly compatible. My two...not so. Mercury personified: They are drippy-smoochy in love or raging, tear-streaked and accusatory.

I am a parent. Which is odd because I am still about 18 and annoyingly adolescent. Such a lie. It is only every now and then that I feel that I was not born a mother to these two chameleon-like creatures. Nefarious creatures. Angels. Gifts.

I'm tired.

PS: I joined a Sanskrit Chant choir. I have no idea what is in store for me. It fell into my lap and I have been aching to sing lately. So I joined. The women chat with a vernacular I don't really get (auras, internal centers, spiritual focus) but they are lovely and the music makes me happy. Can anyone who does not sing understand the actual physical joy that comes from making a beautiful noise?