​“C’mon, guys!” I bellowed, “You’re late!” One by one, they appeared at the kitchen table in our Naval Station Mayport base house, each carrying a heavy attitude.

​My husband, Francis, slumped into a chair. He’d always thought my nicey-nicey family meetings were pure nonsense, a waste of his Sunday leisure time. When he grew up, you did what your parents told you to do, or you’d be wearing five faster than you could say “Child Protective Services.” However, Francis had left me in charge so often during Navy deployments and work travel, he knew it was best to go along with my parenting schemes, harebrained or not.

​I’d been holding periodic family meetings since the kids were too young to read my typed agendas, believing they were necessary to maintain order, and my sanity. Although no stranger to corporal punishment, I was afraid of turning our kids into ax murders, heroin junkies or, worst of all, adults with low self-esteem. I believed I could achieve total cooperation by simply telling the kids what we wanted them to do. Makes perfect sense, right?

​Lilly, 12, and Anna, 14, arrived in a sock-sliding race for the best seat, the elder sister grabbing the prime spot. The last to arrive, thudding down the stairs, was Hayden, 17, who would have preferred an insurance seminar to a conversation with family during which feelings might be discussed.

​With everyone seated, I played upon their worst fears. “Okay, everyone, let’s hold hands and say what we love about each other.”

​I allowed an uncomfortable silence, then, just when mutiny was imminent, I blurted, “Gotcha!” My comedic genius softened them up, exactly what I needed for my plan to take hold. Clearing my throat, I began.

​“Summer break is coming, but you still need to manage your time properly so you do well this school year. We expect ...” I went on, and on, about bedtimes, homework, chores, allowance, privileges, personal hygiene and manners.

​About 40 minutes into the lecture, I was losing them, an eventuality for which I was prepared.

​“In conclusion, to help you manage your time, here’s a little gift.”

​The girls squealed with delight when I revealed three new sports watches, with digital displays, dual alarms, 10-lap memory chrono and water resistance to 100 meters—whatever all that means. I sat back, smug with satisfaction, and thought, “Rules will be followed. Order is restored. No punishments necessary. I look like Mother Teresa. My plan is complete.”

​“I’m not wearing this,” Hayden interjected.

​“Listen Honey,” I responded, “you’re almost a man now — you should learn how to use a watch.”

​“I’m not putting this stupid hunk of plastic on my wrist — there are clocks everywhere.”

​I can’t be sure, but I believe smoke emanated from my ears.

​It may have been Hayden’s utter lack of appreciation, his complete disregard for authority, my unrealistic desire for total obedience or that my underwear was riding up that afternoon, but I saw red. “Listen to me, young man,” I said through gritted teeth, “you WILL wear that watch, you understand me?”

​“NO.”

​The next 20 minutes were a bit foggy, but I clearly recalled Francis storming off down the street, and Hayden throwing the watch at the wall while screaming a particular expletive he’d previously not uttered in our presence. Then, I vaguely remembered flying upstairs without touching the ground and lifting Hayden’s door off the hinges with superhuman strength.

​Cooling off in our garage, I felt an immediate sense of regret. “The boy IS 17,” I thought, “he probably sees that watch as a shackle. I need to let him make his own choices.”

​I walked into the house, just as Hayden was coming out to find me. Our eyes met, communicating our mutual regret without words.

​“Where’d that watch go, Mom? I could give it a try.”

​“I’ll help you find it, but … I was thinking, you could just carry it in your pocket. Or, you don’t have to wear it at all.” We smiled at each other, realizing how silly we’d been.

​Just as I found the watch broken in the corner, Francis arrived home refreshed from his afternoon walk, and asked, “So ... what’s for dinner?”

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com