You move when I say move.

I've had it. I am going to say one of the things you're not supposed to say. I am ready for summer to be over. I am ready for my kids to go back to school. I am ready for them to be home less, to be idle less and to have less free time on their hands. I am ready for a routine. I am ready for them to be run down at the end of the day.

I have been feeling like all I do is fuss and correct and discipline. Poor Corey is the primary fusser and correcter and disciplinarian, so if it's feeling constant and dreadful to me, it's clearly taking a toll on him. Today they asked if they good go get their umpteen Nerf guns, some of which have never been removed from the box, (one of them still has pieces of Christmas wrapping paper on it) out of the shed and play outside. About thirty minutes later, they came back inside because they were too hot. A little later than that, I went outside to throw some garbage away and my driveway and back patio are peppered with darts and pieces of Nerf guns, plastic pieces, empty boxes, just laying about. As soon as Corey called them downstairs and calmly directed them to the back door, Jake knew what was up and was the first one out the door to start cleaning.

How does it not occur to a kid that these things cannot just lay in the driveway for all eternity? Or do they make the decision that if they leave it, we will clean it up?

We have agreed to start giving them an allowance in exchange for them taking a little responsibility for helping with small chores around the house. They swept the carport while Corey mowed the backyard. They help me empty the dishwasher. They bring their laundry downstairs. They have helped Corey put the garbage at the curb on trash days. They pick up their toys evey night and put their clothes in the hamper. When school starts, part of their morning routine will be making their beds, to the extent that the flat sheet and quilt must be pulled up to cover the fitted sheet. They are currently struggling with all of this, but it takes a while to make something a habit.

Then there's the issue of Landen's mouth. I love that boy. I truly do. He is so sweet and affectionate. He loves me a whole, whole lot. Those facts notwithstanding, I often have Ally McBeal-type visions of busting him in the face with my cold iron. Or shaking him until his brain resets. Luckily I have enough love for him and sense of the world to stay several feet away from him when he pisses me off and give a few moments of serious consideration before carrying out the appropriate punishment.

I've washed the mouth out with soap. I've taken away TV. I've put him to bed earlier. I've forbid computer use and video games. I have shocked him out of shitty behavior by tugging a lock of his hair or pinching his arm skin like my mother used to do to me. We have threatened not letting him take weekend trips to Beaumont but our sensitivity to their grandparents always overrules that. Punishment has in extreme circumstances been corporal.

It will not stop. He's wicked, and he's smart. He knows right from wrong. He knows what he's allowed and not allowed to do. Rules of this house are posted on the wall if he's ever confused. The issue is not that he does not know better. It's that he chooses not to do better. He chooses to test whether you mean it when you tell him not to kick the chair in front of him in an auditorium setting. He chooses to say he did not hear you say "come here" or "stop that." He chooses to lie about not saying the thing you just heard him say and he chooses to argue with you about whether you heard him correctly.

The only explanation is that he has, as Bill Cosby described below in my favorite stand-up show of life, the Brain Damage.

Landen's current favorite and most-used phrases are "I know!", "no you didn't, " "I didn't hear you" and "that's not exactly what I said." All of these are either interrupting you when you are talking to him or at the end of your sentence, to which his only response should be "yes ma'am" or "yes sir." It is always given curtly, somewhat loud and with tremendous disrespect. Last week he rolled his eyes at me, in my face, and I know that it was the Largest Eye Roll in the history of eight-year-olds. He also recently semi-rolled his eyes and huffed when I told him to put his hand over his heart for the "Star Spangled Banner." His father did not see that, and I did not tell him.

Landen knows a story about Corey slapping a deserving aquaintance in the face for talking smack about me when I was in high school. At a recent trip to the Chimes, which they love, Landen was pulled into the bathroom for a come-to-Jesus twice, once by each parent. Cydney had to separate them. The breaking point was when he decided to slap Jake lightly in the face about six times with his paper child's menu. Had the bathroom been empty, he would have been spanked. Instead, he got the Death Stare from his dad, who also informed him that this - deciding to act in the opposite fashion from what is allowed or expected without regard to the consequences - would lead to eventual imprisonment in a federal facility. Landen waited about five seconds before saying "Did you know that you could go to jail for slapping someone in the face?"

He was sly enough and smart enough to figure out a way to say "f*ck you" to his dad without actually saying it. This is a kid who will eventually be a teenager. This is the kid who will lead to my extended stay in the Betty Ford clinic.

It is my desperate hope that when he goes back to school he will reacclimate to the strict behavioral expectations of a school setting and we will see that improvement at home. We have also explained to him that being such a know-it-all and such a smartass is not going to make him friends at his new school.

God be with all of us while we try to break this horse.