My children are monsters.

It's a double-edged sword, this homeschooling. On the up side, I get to be with my kids pretty much all the time. On the down side, I have to be with my kids pretty much all the time. And as I mentioned above, my children are monsters.

Not the "Can you believe that bratty kid?" sort of monsters that invariably block the aisles at Wal-Mart. No, my children have actual super powers. If they used them for the forces of good, I'd say they're super heroes. As it is, they use their powers for nefarious, anti-Mommy purposes and I am left to rant peevishly about it on my weblog.

Never are their abilities more potent than on a rainy, stuck-in-the-house day on which I had already yelled three times before 10 am. In desperation, wanting to put an end to the madness, I thought, "Food!" Snacks, of course! They'll be contained at the table, their mouths will be busy, all will be quiet and calm! I even had an excellent snack just for myself in the kitchen, perfect for regrouping.

I sounded the call. "Who wants a snack?"

"Me, me, me! I do, I do!" Ooh, good going, Mama. This was a great idea! In that euphoric moment, I extended an irresistible offer: "What do you want?"

Their eyes lit up, Two mouths formed little o's of happiness. Pick our own? Really? No carrots? No apples? Whatever we want?

Yep. Whatever you want.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity. Child A wanted leftover pizza. "And... chocolate?" It was a hesitant question.

"Chocolate? Sure! Pizza and chocolate it is!"

They squealed. They jumped. They skipped to the table. Child B wanted yogurt. And chocolate. "Yogurt and chocolate coming up!" I trilled.

Food was served, chocolate distributed. There was much joyous wiggling and hooray-for-mom impromptu singing.

It was working! No running, no screaming, no thumping. Blessed calm and quiet. Smiling to myself, I fixed the ultimate snack to soothe my foodie heart - a couple wedges of perfect, crusty-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside French bread, a delicate fan of cheddar cheese slices, a lacy pile of curling, just-spicy-enough turkey pepperoni. My mouth watered as I carried the arrangement to the table.

I sat. And that is when it happened. The change.

In the tradition of all metamorph greats - Dr. Jekyll, Bruce Banner, Teen Wolf - it was an on-the-spot change. No tedious running off to phone booths here; my kids are no amateurs. Also following tradition, even though I should have seen it coming, I was caught entirely off guard.

Within seconds of my plate touching down on the wood tabletop, my previously happy, healthy children disappeared. In their place sat two of the most down-and-out, pathetic, groveling, Dickensian street urchins one could imagine. Their round, robust little bodies gave way to emaciated, stoop-shouldered forms. Out of nowhere, dark circles appeared beneath their eyes, now looming darkly from pale, drawn faces. Youthful exuberance was gone, replaced by deep longing. Pizza and yogurt and chocolate lay, forgotten, rejected, scattered in front of these sad beasts of wanting, like stripped-down bones on display for disinterested vultures.

"Can I have some?"
"Have some?"

When the change happens, the fixation is so complete that the two often echo one another in identical desire.

I looked at my plate. The bread, the cheese, the pepperoni. How naive I'd been. My choices held little appeal: Deny them my food and endure the requisite whining, staring, and tantruming, or sacrifice my much-anticipated snack in the name of winning 10 more minutes of quietude.

I chose quiet. As they devoured my food, the monsters gradually gave way to my familiar children.

And in my hard-earned 10 minutes of silence, I, undetected, crammed a few bite-sized Milky Way candy bars in my mouth while stepping out for the mail.