I understand Alec Baldwin's outburst, sometimes. Alice Miller in the Drama of the Gifted Child spells it out clearly, how your kids bring out the kid in you, for better and often for worse. Today I finally dragged myself to yoga and then wrestled on the phone with ordering racing stripes for my 1973 Mustang Mach I. I always thought they were a bit too Neanderthal, a bit too Dukes of Hazard for my taste but the guy helping me sell the car convinced me that I need them.

Then I raced to pick the kids up at school. Ava was so delighted to see me and to learn that Valeria was coming for a picnic with us. At school her name is pronounced Val-eria because her teacher mispronounced it and it stuck. Valeria is from Peru. And Ava was so happy when I took us to Chirping Chicken to get more roasted potatoes. She is potato addicted but I'm trying to ween her off of fries. Then near home I wanted to surprise them with Italian ices from those street vendors, the kind where you push and crumple the paper cup to push the ice into your mouth. The guy wasn't there today so I told them we were taking a little walk.

You would have thought that I had suggested that she shave her head.

"Daddy, nooooooooooooo! I want to go hooooooooome." she planted her feet on the corner and pretzled her arms. I kept walking but found myself having to holler back at her to trot to catch up. I hate yelling on the street but wouldn't go back for her. The mornings, sometimes, are just as loud. Everyone always tells me what a great job I'm doing with the kids, how they are perfect angels. My kids just have the good sense to rarely show their asses, literally and figuratively, to strangers. In the mornings, at least a few times a week, we three end up yelling at each other like a family in a Scorsese film.

O.K., that's overstating it. We don't dig into each other like Jake and Vicki LaMotta but we're yelling across the apartment and then one of them is crying about not wanting to take a shower first or getting a supposedly measurably smaller piece of sandwich. It really doesn't matter what it's about my kids can find a way to make it life or death.

So when I dragged Ava to the new gelato/crepe store I thought she would immediately smile. Instead she dug in her heels and refused to order ice cream while Chet and I dug into our own. Later I broke down and ordered her a crepe and she was happy and now Chet was pissed and I was drained and depressed. When we got home I retreated to my office. Chet was in the shower, Ava ran into my room naked singing "Seasons of Love" from Rent over and over.

Each chorus was driving me further to insanity. I just needed quiet and wanted to will them to bed without dinner, without even drying off, if it meant that I would get to be alone and at peace.

But something in her smile stopped me from snapping at her, stopped me from yucking her yum. She was so happy again and that's all I ever want for her. So I clicked on to Rhapsody, a music service I subscribe to and played the song loud,

"five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes how do you measure? measure a year"

I don't always take the high road. I've often yucked her yum. Just not tonight.