If your mother frequently babysits your children, you may happen to stumble upon her diary one day, which she may have left on top of some newspapers on your kitchen table while she ran to the grocery store.
You may happen to leaf through a few pages, against your better judgment. (Alas, old habits are hard to break.)
You may happen to scan the pages for your name and, in doing so, come across a page in which she describes you as over-bearing and too serious, both with her and your children. You may also notice that she called your husband detached and depressed. "Runs errands for hours, seemingly."
When your mother returns from the store you may have to shotgun a bottle of wine to keep yourself from strangling her. After she leaves you may find yourself muttering like a madman and doing things you don't normally do, like riding your son's scooter around the neighborhood as you curse.
But hey, it's free childcare, right? And no one loves your kids like your parents do, right?
It doesn't get easier, does it?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.