It’s 12:00 a.m., and when most children are all snuggly buggly wuggly in their widdle beds getting lots of shuteye for their big days at school tomorrow, mine is still awake.

Apparently, her class got in trouble today for excessive chattiness and in a brazen show of authoritative take-that-ness, her teacher slammed them with — wait for it — 60 definitions and 60 sentences. On top of science homework and algebra equations, Girl Child’s whole night has been spent with her face stuck in a dictionary and a marble composition book leading up to now, the stroke of midnight. I am not amused.

When we first decided (my husband and I) that I would work from home while he went to a real job that required actual pants all day long, it seemed like a great idea. I mean, I hated my former occupation -- nursing -- and having the kitchen a mere 10 feet away from me at all times? That's winning.

I could nap whenever I wanted. I could sleep in as late as my body would allow. I could work without pants. I could do my work whenever. Really, there seemed to be no downside! This allowed my husband, the work-a-holic, to work as much as he wanted without having to take time off for sick kids.

Double win!

Until, of course, I realized that the one thing I'd neglected to think about was that I'd be WORKING at home -- not just watching reruns of 90210. And that I'd be forced to balance it all.

Here's how I do it.

Once upon a time, when I was fresh out of college and didn’t yet know what I wanted to do, I became a substitute teacher in Baltimore public schools. (I’ll pause for your head shakes of sympathy and collective awws of pity.) I avoided middle school — my own child was still little but I knew even back then that that tween attitude was for the birds — so I focused on elementary and high school classes.

You’ve all been in school yourselves, so you remember exactly how you behaved (or didn’t) when the sub handed out a worksheet to go along with a super boring video on, like, photosynthesis or the Bill of Rights or conjunctions or something. It was a set-up for chaos back then and it still is. But if you’re a fly on the wall, it’ll show you exactly how your kid really acts when the authority figure in their classroom is new and all deer-caught-in-headlights. Are they a helper or a hellion?

Ah, the comment box. Between the three blogs I contribute to, I always get a heap of input — sometimes heated backlash — about the stuff I post. I dish it, so of course I can take it. One post sticks out in my mind. A reader couldn’t focus on the point I was trying to make in my writing for being distracted by the way I was writing it. My language choice was stereotypical and offensive to my people, she balked.

I blog exactly how I talk in real-life conversation, much to the chagrin of that commenter and others who’ve corrected my grammar, apparently. It’s not that I don’t know the straight-laced, more formal way of expressing my thoughts — I have a degree in English (gasp!) and I’m a writer and editor by trade. But Ebonics is the way my family and plenty other black folks talk. It’s familiar and comfortable. That’s why I think it’s appropriate not only for blogging, but teaching black students. 

Most of us — except folks who don’t have to empathize with anybody because they’re just that wealthy and powerful — love an underdog story. So here’s one that isn’t vying for headline space alongside Amanda Knox or the Wall Street protests, but is no less important.

I know a single father who’s trying to send his daughter abroad for an exchange student program but just can’t seem to get the money together to do it. She, being a none-the-wiser kid, doesn’t know that her dad is struggling behind the scenes. Like most children, she thinks it’s as simple as putting in a request and waiting for her parent to make it magically happen, some way, some how.

This isn’t like a pricey ticket to a hot concert or a $100 pair of Air Jordans. It’s a life-changing experience. Traveling is the greatest gift any mom or dad could give to their kid. It’s just the paying for it part that’s such a bummer. 

Single sex education is taking quite a beating with a new study showing that it actually hurts children and promotes gender stereotypes rather than helping children overcome them. But as someone who was in co-ed schools my whole life, I do wonder how valid these studies really are.

Most people I know who went to single sex schools actually thrived because of them. They felt more comfortable raising their hands, speaking out, and being themselves in an environment where the drama of the opposite sex didn't exist. The study, however, concludes:

Back to school time is really stressful -- not for the kids, for us moms, yo. We have a lot of people to please during that first week back. From buying the perfect first day outfit and the "cool" kind of backpack to packing the right lunch and sending all the necessary school supplies to class. How long was your classroom supply list? Mine was longer than my grocery list, and why does no one in this town stock black dry erase markers, dang it?

Besides, if anything goes wrong, it all comes back on mom. Uncool outfit -- mom's fault. Wrong size backpack -- mom's fault. Healthy, no-fun lunch -- mom's fault. I'm pretty sure the teachers even secretly lay the blame on mom. Wrong sized pencil box -- mom's fault. Ill-behaved kid -- mom's fault. I'm telling you, the pressure is on!

Well, moms, consider this right here a support group for all your Back to School failures. We've got your back because we've been there, done that, and we'll listen and hold our judgment.

As much as I hate to admit it, summer is waning here in the lovely District of Columbia. As I cling to my flip-flops and sundresses and make frowny faces at boots and jackets, the kiddies — and, let’s be honest, us parents — are all wrapped up in the excitement of the back-to-school season. If they didn’t go last week, which I think is silly because of the long weekend, then tomorrow is probably the big day. It’s going to be all jitters and butterflies for a lot of households come morning.

Last week was Tween Girl’s first day of eighth grade. I’m proud to report that, even though it’s her last year of middle school, I made it through without melting into a sentimental heap of sobs. Even when it’s not a monumental year, I usually do the ugly cry for at least 10 minutes after I drop her off. But perhaps I was so distracted by other parents’ shenanigans that I couldn’t go through my emotional routine.