My mother is a secret-keeper worthy of membership in the Illuminati. I say this because of all the things about motherhood that she conveniently forgot to mention. During my first pregnancy, I expressed my concerns. She glossed over them with the breezy indifference of a cafe patron accepting Sweet ‘N Low instead of Splenda.

Primarily, she neglected to tell me that when I had kids silence would no longer be a viable option. After my kids left for school this morning I found myself screaming “Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!” like a manic psychopath. (When I write my memoirs and they make a movie, I want Winona Ryder to play me. After all, she knows a little bit about personal eccentricities.)

The television was extremely loud and playing an endless parade of giggling tweens, toy commercials, and teeth-gritting promos concerning how we should all make the world a better place. I made the world a better place instantly by turning off the television. My children never turn off the television. I suspect they are unaware it can be turned off without a power outage.

Don’t misunderstand, I have been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Sponge Bob, myself. However, most children’s shows have an over-abundance of creepily cheerful music and high pitched voices which dig into your ear drums and alter your consciousness with the same relentless ferocity as the larva that Khan put in Chekhov’s ear in the second Star Trek movie.

She might have also forgotten to mention that my kids would be polar opposites of one another, forever crushing my hopes of following in the footsteps of Nick Saban and devising “A Program” to which I could make the whole team subscribe.

The oldest is so indolent (we don’t use the word lazy) that I fear she might at any moment morph into a pile of viscous jelly comprised primarily of hair products. If you ask her to do anything, she rolls her eyes as if asked to drag a bag of manure five miles, then uses utter motionlessness to convey her disdain.

The younger one is a whirlwind of tornadic activity. She likes to re-arrange her room several times a month and dump all the unwanted items against the wall in my bedroom, the only clutter-free space in the house.

My mother also kept secret the knowledge that when you have more than one child, they fight over anything and everything. Yesterday, there was a storm of raised voices and threats. I barely managed to hold off outright bloodshed. You might wonder what hideous crime could drive these angels to such fits of rage. One was smiling at the other. Seriously. Smiling.

She certainly didn’t tell me that each of them might have some freakish relationship to food. The oldest one likes to smuggle food back to her room where it never resurfaces. Her room is like an emergency food pantry. I’ve been considering putting a radio and some gallons of water in there, as well. In case of a zombie apocalypse, we can barricade ourselves in her room and survive for months.

The little one is apparently unaware of the location of the garbage can. She likes to stuff half-eaten food under the couch or behind the television. Last week, I found a chicken leg stuffed between the couch cushions. I’ve tried to explain about the garbage can. I’ve shown her where it is. I’ve drawn her a map. She’s a gifted student who cannot hold the location of a trash receptacle in her memory.

Yesterday, my mother came by for a visit. I couldn’t help myself. I confronted her with her treachery. She simply smiled and said, “Wait until you find out all the things I didn’t tell you about being the mother of a teenager.”

To drown out the sound of her maniacal laughter, I turned on the television.