Recent conversation with son:

“Mom!  Why didn’t you make sure I got my backpack?”

“What?” I ask, completely confused as son slips into panick-mode on Saturday.

“My backpack,” he says slowly, as though he is talking to a half-wit and not his mother.  “Where is it?”

Do you hear my teeth grinding?  “Don’t know.  I’m not responsible for your backpack.”

“But I can’t do my homework!  I’ve got Math!”

“Then I guess you should have remembered your backpack.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me if I had it when I got in the car,” he mumbles, still determined–for reasons I can only assume have something to do with the massive amounts of hormones hurtling through his body–to make this *my* fault.  “Will you take me up to the school to see if I can get it?”

It’s Saturday and baseball practice is over.  Chances are he can’t get in the school.  But, being a good mother, I haul his sullen rear up there and of course I am right.  He can’t get in the school.

“From now on make sure I’ve got my backpack,” he tells me when he gets back into the car, once again implying that the reason his homework won’t get done is my fault.

“Here’s a thought.  From now on *you* make sure you have your backpack.  I’m too busy making sure that you’ve brushed your hair and teeth, put your retainer in at night, made your bed, packed your lunch, remembered to get the lunch out of the car and making sure you have your baseball bag.  You’re on your own with the backpack, hoss.”

I’m told this phase will pass.  I hope it does before I throttle him.