The most lovable cause of mental illness: children

I know we have to continue the species and keep Johnson & Johnson's Band-Aid division in the black, but other than that, really, why do we have kids?

I'm writing this, thinking about last weekend. As the Celebration got rolling, I got to rolling home later and later every night. Between late classes and putting stories and pictures online for the paper, I was getting home around 1 a.m. On Friday, I was so excited -- I got home at midnight! I got in my jammies, snuggled into bed -- then realized my 17-year-old was sitting down at the high school, waiting for me to pick him up. The band had just gotten back from the football game in Cookeville.

Saturday night, I got home at 1 a.m. to find my husband awake -- which is amazing enough, considering he's usually comatose by 9 p.m. Why was he awake? Because the 17-year-old was not home. He'd taken his little brother to Geeks for a Super Mario Cart tournament, whatever that is, then brought him home. Instead of coming in and asking, 'Hey, Dad, can I go over to Richard's for a marathon Monopoly game?" to which his father would have responded, "Not unless you've got the laundry done," the sneaky teen sent his little brother in with a message.

"Gone to a friend's. Be back later."

Since I was already up (I get wired on the drive home and it always takes a couple of computer games to get me sleepy) I volunteered to stay up for the truant. He finally strolled in -- at 3 a.m.

Sometimes I think Ben tries to outdo his older brother, Scott. Scott got bitten by a turtle and had to go to the emergency room with salmonella poisoning. Ben was only bitten by a dog, but he did it twice in one week with two different dogs.

The first time Scott got in serious trouble for breaking curfew, he'd been sitting at Waffle House until 2 a.m. Naturally, Ben had to take it even further.

After he got the sniff test -- no pot, no tobacco, no alcohol, pupils dilating normally, speech unslurred, reflexes normal -- I sent him to bed. I was simply too angry to deal with him then and I wanted time to cool off.

Of course, he doesn't understand why I'm angry. He thinks it was because he broke the rules, stayed out after curfew and used his little brother to run interference.

Well. Okay, he's right. It is all that. But it's also because whenever a child is out of his parent's keeping, that parent is secretly, deep-down terrified that something has happened to him. I don't care how old the child is or where the child is. Whenever I hear about crime in Goodlettsville, my stomach clenches because I know my oldest has either been mugged, wrecked a car, or he's held up a liquor store. If I hear about a bus wreck in Huntsville I have to remind myself that 1) My youngest doesn't go to school in Huntsville, and 2) he's never ridden a bus to school in his life.

I have two coworkers who are expecting children. One, Tamara, already has a child, so she knows what I'm talking about. But Sadie, poor Sadie, doesn't realize that the minute that child is put in your arms, your own life is over.

Oh, you can still have a career, a relationship, a life. But whether you're making cookies in the kitchen or deals on Wall Street, part of your heart is permanently locked in on that child and his well being.

So why do we have kids?

Every day when I get home, as I pull up, I can hear the cats make a mad scramble from their front window perch, across the dining room table, through the mail, and into the kitchen. I can also hear my youngest yell, "Mom!" as he runs to open the door for me.

My 17-year-old always seems to know when to put down whatever he's doing and walk over and give me a hug.

My oldest calls occasionally. When he needs something. But I'm sure he thinks about me. Every now and then. Maybe.

Sure, they're human and flawed and frustrating. But they're also human, and funny and fulfilling. As aggravating and expensive as the little monsters can be, I wouldn't trade them in for anything.

Except maybe a few extra hours of sleep.

-- Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be reached at mreeves.com.