“Told them I’d give them the cost of the admission ticket and what I would have spent on gas if we could just come here. Worked like a charm.”

Thank God for money.

Hate to admit it, but I’d do the exact same thing. Who’d want to make the drive from Bellevue to Federal Way—what is that, forty minutes each way?—and then spend hours worrying about the kids getting lost or abducted before driving back home in rush-hour traffic? No, Kate’s right. Far better to take advantage of the Points Country Club pool before it closes for the summer.

My youngest daughter, Tori, who has just recently turned four, remembers I’m at the pool and comes running over to give me a wet hug. “Mama, Mama, Mama! I missed you!”

I hug and kiss her back. “Having fun?” I ask, rubbing her bare tummy.

She nods, her blond curly ponytails like piggy corkscrews in the sky. “I’m hungry.”

“We’re having dinner soon.”

“Can I have some French fries?”

“We’re going home in twenty minutes—”

“I want French fries.”

“Honey.”

“I’m starving.” Her lower lip thrusts out. “Starving.”

Oh, why not? It’s Friday. Labor Day weekend. I’m tired and don’t want to get up. If French fries will keep her happy, let her have them. “Tell Brooke to go with you to order. She’s right there, in the shallow end.”

“’Kay.”

“’Kay.”

Tori runs off in her pink two-piece, her still chubby thighs making little slapping noises. “Is that bad?” I ask, looking at my friends. “French fries right before dinner?”

“It’s the end of summer,” Patti answers with a shrug.

Exactly. Kids will be back in school in just days, and it’ll only get harder, what with homework and sports and meetings. Being a mother is a full-time job. I couldn’t work outside the home even if I wanted to.

“Mom! Mom! Taylor Young!” My middle daughter, Brooke, shouts at me from the pool, resorting to using my name when I take too long to answer.

I put a finger to my lips, indicating she’s too loud. “Come here if you want to talk to me,” I stage-whisper. “Don’t shout across the pool.”

With a sigh, Brooke drags herself out of the pool and splashes her way to our table. “Did you tell Tori I had to go order her French fries?”

“She’s hungry.” I’m not in the mood to deal with Brooke’s attitude now. For a middle child, Brooke is extremely strong-willed. “You can share her fries.”

“I don’t want fries.”

“What do you want?”

“Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream bar.”

“No—”

“You said.” She gives me her “I’m seven and going into first grade” look. “You did, Mom.”

“What about a Popsicle?”

“Why does Tori get fries and I have to have a Popsicle? Why does she always get everything she wants? Because she’s the baby? When I was her age I could order my own fries—”

“Fine. Get your ice cream.” I give up. I just can’t do this today. Not without another drink. “Help Tori and get what you want.”

She flounces away, and I see the face she makes at me. I don’t call her on it, though. I’m too tired, and as the parenting experts all say, you have to pick your battles.