Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.