A fortune from a cookie sits on my drainboard: “Love asks me no questions and gives me endless support.” If the ancient Chinese wisdom of fortune cookies is to be believed, then I am failing miserably at loving my children.

Because I ask questions. Lots of questions. Just from this morning:

- Why did you tell your sister she sucks?
- Why does she always have to come upstairs with you? Why can’t you play upstairs by yourself?
- Why did you grab the last piece of pizza when you already have two on your plate?

These questions will change over the years (Who are you with? When are you coming home? What did you do to your hair?) but I will continue to ask them.

As for the endless support part of the fortune, I would say, define “endless.” Some things I don’t support. Like jumping off the high dive. Drinking Coke, especially before bedtime. Pretending you’re sick to your stomach to get out of Sunday school.

Okay, I was going to try to wind this up with some profound definition of love, which I don’t actually have, but then war broke out in the room where I’m writing. So I’ll just give you an example of how love plays out at my house.

Girl: “You’re a liar! You lied because you said there was no pizza left, and there was! You’re lying because you just want to see me cry!” This is followed by flopping on the floor, crying, coughing and then gagging. “I gotta throw up!” This is followed by spitting up a little bit of mucus into the potty, with much drama and recriminations. Then flopping on the bed in exhaustion.

Boy: “I made you a pallet on the floor. In case you want to lie down there.”

Girl: “That’s okay. I’ll go play upstairs with you.”

A snapshot from our family vacation to Ohio: We are walking through my husband’s childhood neighborhood. Each of us is searching for something different. A camera strung on my neck, I am looking for the house of my dreams, which I spied just down the hill. A new place to fantasize about, perched on a lake with its own private beach. A Southern Living spread come to life far north of the Mason-Dixon, and I aim to shoot it.

Girl is hunting Indian bubble gum. Bob turns her onto it, pulling down a thin twisted twig from a wild grape vine. He calls it Indian gum because legend has it that the Indians used to chew it. It tastes bitter and nothing like gum, let alone bubble gum, but Girl is hungry and baby bear that she is, she roots it out everywhere along the road.

Boy is looking alternatively for snakes, frogs, groundhogs and crab apples that can be smashed on the pavement, because he learns from Bob that that’s what you do with crab apples.

Bob is searching for Snakesville — the grassy hill where he and his pack of wild boys used to catch garter snakes. It’s all overgrown now, unrecognizable to him. It’s hard for him to get his bearings — there’s no trace of it. He squints into the thicket, scouting for the paths they used to take as shortcuts home. These too are grown and gone, just like the children who made them. On the long way back I realize I am the only one on this walk not seeing things with the eyes of a child.

I try to stay informed by listening to news radio on the way to work. This morning there was lots of court-related news. But honestly, which one would YOU listen to?

This: Hot 95.7

Or this: NPR

Yeah, I thought so. I rest my case.

Boy knows the make, model and engine size of every cool car on the highway.

“Oh Mom, look, there’s a Chevy Camaro with a V8.”

He speculates which car could beat which in a race, and has recently discovered YouTube videos that confirm his suspicion that a BMW M5 could beat a Mustang, but not a Corvette.

Last night I was marveling at his automotive knowledge when I overheard this conversation, wherein Boy and Girl were adopting car-sounding nicknames for themselves:

Girl: I’m M6

Boy: I’m H1N1

Girl: That’s the swine flu!

Boy: It is?