Except, if they did, the damn manuals would probably be written by someone who had English only as a (very poor) second language.

Like whoever it was who wrote the instructions for a baby changing table that my ex and I bought before the kid was born. It had to be assembled. The instructions used English words. Or they appeared to be English. I can’t at all reconstruct it now, 17 years later. But the flavor was something like, “Now part A. Place B to left side tight. Set down like up side.” You get the idea. The exploded-parts chart didn’t even help. At the end, I had a frazzled temperment and a pile of left-over parts. The instructions ended by saying, “Now, wasn’t that fun!”

Having a resident teenager is rather like that. My whole world is set down like up side. I find myself doing things that I didn’t think I would ever do. Sometimes I wonder if I’m anything even approaching an adequate parent.

When this stage ends, will I have a pile of left-over parts? Or will I say, “Now, wasn’t that fun!”