MaryJanice Davidson on Magic: The Teenaging

My son, The Boy, turned 16 last weekend. This meant a busy holiday weekend: My daughter, Dawn (whose name isn't Dawn), came home from college, and seven teenagers showed up Saturday with no plans to leave until Sunday. Which meant I spent roughly 12 hours at the grocery store.

"More, we have to have more! More chips, more salsa. More pop, more paper plates. More pizza, more nachos, more tiny boxes of cereal. More vegetables (I guess)."

"But ma'am, we already—"

"All that you have here in this enormous grocery store? Isn't enough! OK, I'm taking these carts out to load my car, I'll be back in an hour for the rest."

"You heard the lady. We go live again in 60!"

So Friday: hunting and gathering. Saturday: feeding the pleasant, polite locusts invading my home. (My husband: "It's not really an invasion if you invite them." Me: "Shut up and put out more nachos.") Sunday: weeping over my lost youth. Monday: "What, again? You're having friends over again?"

"For Magic," The Boy explained slowly and carefully, as one does to the grumpy and sleep-deprived (the teenagers all slept in the next room, and settled down around, oh, 5 a.m. Then they began rising, bright-eyed and empty-bellied, around 6:30 a.m.).

"But you played Magic today." Magic: The Gathering is like Dungeons and Dragons, if D&D was played with cards and didn't take 18 weeks. MtG has consumed my husband and children for well over a decade. Only I escaped the obsession unscathed, because my obsession is complaining about card games.

"No, we played Dungeons and Dragons."

"Oh, like there's a difference."

His response was eloquent: a pained look, a shudder. An eye roll. The works. Rather than endure another five seconds of silent sarcasm (I vastly prefer noisy sarcasm), I fled the house.

From my car: "Yeah, Cub Foods? Listen, he's having a different group over today to play a different geeky thing — I know! I thought yesterday was the limit, but God help me, I was wrong ... I was wrong!" Keys, where were my keeeeys? "Yes, they're all teenagers, too ... I don't care what your suppliers said! I have to have more! Call every farmer, every cattle rancher, every organic grower, maybe warn the USDA to be safe ... call everybody!" Keys! Yes! My shiny, pointy liberators. "I'll be there in half an hour. Do you have any éclairs left? I'd love an éclair for lunch. Make it two. There are eggs in the custard filling, so really, it's like brunch. Hello?"

My return to the house coincided with the second group of sentient locusts, who greeted me with amiable disinterest. "Hey, er—" The Boy's friends are all gangly, tall, polite, smart, disconcertingly deep-voiced, and none of them has any idea what my name is. They know the difference between Golgari, Boros and Selesnya Charm Magic cards, but can't recall the most popular girl's name for the past 160 years. "Er—"

"Mary."

"Yeah, Will's mom."

"No, that's my slave name."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I thought you worked from home."

"I do."

"But, like, you're never here."

"I know."

"So, like, how d'you get work done?"

Yes! Thank you! A question for the ages! The kid backed off, alarmed, and I realize I'd screamed my thoughts out loud. Not good. Like zoos, we had firm rules: Do Not Startle The Teenagers. "Here," I answered, shoving a platter at him. "Eat this fruit."

"No cupcakes?"

"They were out," I lied, covertly touching my face to make sure I hadn't missed any frosting.

Once (temporarily) sated, the kids adjourned to the dining room where, given the elaborate Dungeons and Dragons figurines and Magic decks stored there, food is not allowed (we're aware of the irony). Disaster averted again, again. Now to relax and—

"Mom?" My daughter, Dawn, whose name isn't Dawn, had cornered me in the kitchen. "I want to make supper tomorrow for the family."

"Why?" It doesn't say much for me that my initial reaction was deep suspicion. "Did you lose a bet?"

"No, I want to make supper for The Boy's birthday. His favorite, spaghetti alla carbonara."

"Oh! Wow, that's really thoughtful." Dawn is an impoverished college student, so her gifts tend to be high on the thoughtful scale, low on the $$$ scale. Which is a good idea in general. "He'll love that." Mmm ... bacon and noodles and cream and cheese ... we'll all love that ... a lovely end to a frantic weekend.

"I'll do all the work," she promised, and I chomped down on my lip so I wouldn't fall on her neck, sobbing in relieved gratitude. "I just need the recipe."

"No problem." Something was wrong. I was feeling ... marginalized? No, no. Dawn cooking one meal didn't mean they didn't love me. I mean, need me. Need me! That's what I meant. Besides, I'm more to my family than a wonderful, luminous cook. I'm also a wonderful, luminous butler and a wonderful, luminous chauffer. And checkbook. I'm a luminous checkbook, too.

"And the ingredients. I'll need those."

"Ah." This was more like it. This I understood. "So this is a wonderful thoughtful thing you're doing for us ... after I dig up the recipe, go to the store again — assuming they don't have orders to shoot me on sight — buy the ingredients, return and put them away, and then, sometime tomorrow, you'll get around to doing all the work?"

"Sure."

"The recipe calls for six egg yolks. You know how to separate eggs, right?"

"Sure, but why bother? If it tastes good with just the yolks, think how good it'll taste with six whole eggs."

Moral dilemma: Let her find out, thus serving The Boy his favorite dish, which will taste nothing like his favorite dish? Or separate the eggs for her and let peace reign?

"How hard can it be? It's just eggs and cream and pasta. I don't know why you get so frantic all the time."

"It's just one of my silly, attention-seeking ways. You could save time," I suggested sweetly, "by boiling the pasta in the cream instead of water."

"Great idea!"

I am not a good person. Also, I'll be eating out tomorrow night.

In two weeks: how to make spaghetti alla carbonara without killing anyone. No, really!

MaryJanice Davidson is the international bestselling author of several books, including the Betsy the Vampire Queen series. She has published books, novellas, articles, short stories, recipes, movie reviews and rants. Readers can contact her at contactmjd@comcast.net, find her on Facebook, Twitter (@MaryJaniceD) and her blog. She lives in St. Paul, Minn., and has been sentenced to a husband, two teenagers and two dogs.