By Patricia Gallagher Newberry
Enquirer contributor

Coming up on a decade as somebody's mother, there is still lots and lots I don't get about this parenting game.

I don't understand the moods of children. Carefree and laughing one moment. Kicking their brother or sister in the spleen the next moment. I know of no links to schizophrenia in my family or my husband's and yet we seemed to have bred three children who can change personalities in a heartbeat.

I don't understand why children insist on talking at the same time. If the goal is to be heard, they fail every time. If the goal is attract attention, they get it - but not the kind they're after.

I don't understand the appeal of super sour, neon-colored candy for kids. A fat chocolate bar, preferably with almonds, I get. A box of Nerds, I don't.

Actually, I don't understand the eating habits of children in general. How can a kid who professes to be falling-down starving at 5:30 declare himself full at 6 after three bites of a hot dog and half an apple?

Speaking of meals, I've yet to meet a child under 12 who can stay on a chair for the length of one. Children are like mercury in a thermometer at meals, a mother once told me, slipping and sliding around the kitchen during dinner. I can't figure out why.

And is it only my children who need daily reminders about the daily mechanics of life? Why is such a short list - brush your teeth and hair, get dressed and put on your shoes - so hard to remember?

On the topic of hair, I don't understand why a child of 9 who has complained about getting her hair styled each and every day of those 9 years a) refuses to style her own hair and b) insists on keeping long hair.

I really don't understand why children are least cooperative during transitions: going to bed and getting up, getting in and out of the car, going in and out of the house, etc. Perhaps they just stall and fuss because they know it sets me off. Nah, that couldn't be it.

I don't understand why children refuse to believe that I can't hear them yell "Mom" from the kitchen when I'm sorting laundry in the basement.

I don't understand teasing. And bickering. And why it is so enticing to pick on siblings when strapped into a locked vehicle barreling up I-65 at 70 mph. (I don't understand teasing and bickering at home, either, but at least I can separate the warriors from each other - or me -when it gets out of hand there.)

I don't understand the lure of the sleepover. I know I, too, thought it utterly fascinating to sleep in other people's beds when I was 7 and 9 and beyond. Today, as an adult who doesn't sleep well in any bed but her own, I can't for the life of me remember why.

I don't understand why parents, especially while strolling the mall, carry their babies in their arms and push empty strollers.

I don't understand why parents buy their preteens (or teens ) outfits that make them look like preprostitutes or prepimps.

I don't understand why parents don't demand cleaner radio stations, better TV shows and fewer PG-13 movies for our preteens.

I don't understand why parents - myself and my husband included - aren't more skilled parenting practitioners. The medical, legal, education and real estate industries, among others, require continuing education. Why not the parenting profession?

I don't understand why children who eat little of what I prepare routinely end the evening meal with "Thanks for dinner, mom," a nicety their father taught them. (I suspect it might have something to do with the promise of dessert.)

I don't understand why children who called you a "stupidy meanyhead" for announcing bedtime now insist you sit on the edge of the bed and rub their backs for 10 minutes.

I don't understand how kids who have tortured each other and their mother all the long, hot summer day can't wait to sneak back downstairs after bedtime just to say "You're the best mom."

All too often, I just don't get my kids. Luckily, I get to keep them anyway.

E-mail newgal@marriedwchildren.com