We left for a few days of pleasure. We left two teens behind with threats of random drop-ins from grandparents. We had our phones on us. We left specific verbal and written instructions for the highschoolers so everyone could be clear about expectations and consequences. We're very evolved like that.

We also left our beloved pooch in the custody of trustworthy minors who consistently earn the "conscientious and charming" stamp of approval by their friends' parents. My husband and I are not complete idiots,* but we naively believed our kids care about us and the nest we work so hard to maintain.

Since it was the first time the 15- and 17-year-olds were left alone, I was a little anxious. I comforted myself, reassuring my inner Betty Basketcase that (A) The weekend would be a much needed mini test of adolescent maturity and integrity and (B) That it was pure awesomeness to now have kids of an age where Mommy and Daddy could escape for precious Mommy and Daddy time.

There is a side of me who is extremely Optimistic Olive and Count-your-blessings Cate. Really. Those fine ladies are in there. The improbable (C) Dude! Let’s screw up every instruction they left us on the list and MORE! honestly never occurred to Betty, Olive, or Cate.

Our getaway encompassed an NFL playoff game and The Mall of America (you cannot return from MOA with feet resembling anything but blister-fied bubble wrap, BTW). I let Daddy do all the checking in with the youngsters. Our escape from reality concluded, and upon our return we were reminded of why we needed the break in the first place.

Our house had somehow transformed into a LOOTER’S PARADISE. By that I mean the front doors (which are heavy South American distressed walnut and frame the entrance to our home) were wide open. Not simply unlocked or left ajar—but rather, O.P. E.N. to the great outdoors with nobody home.

Had we been robbed? Of course not. It’s as if the boys, high on crack, schemed, “In one fell swoop let’s run the utility bill skyyyyyy high and for extra terror in the joint, let’s get the shihtzu run over! Yo! Random passerbyers, why not jack our major appliances? See the doorway? Extra wide for your convenience! And what the blue monkey hell? Enjoy a muffin! Memorize the floorplan! Cruise on back next week to hide under my mom’s side of the bed before you torch her.”

I'm sure they were not high the whole time. I know they love our dog. I know Betty Basketcase has a vivid imagination. But even Optimistic Olive concedes her sons can be complete idiots in their sobriety.

Trash and recycling bins we reminded our exceptionally-courteous-to-other-adults children to promptly bring in from the curb, remained where they were parked for days. The empy trash bins at the end of the driveway gleamed like a beacon for freaks roaming the hood. “Hey, look here, creepy dudes—look! See the cans? The family is still not home yet.  Come snag the TVs and my mom’s vintage creamware collection! We’re wasted on happy cabbage and resent her for the pageboy haircuts of our childhood. Have another muffin! Cruise back later to hide under her bed.”

I have to remind myself that today's teens are deeply burdened with demands. It IS difficult to simultaneously respond to texts, check your FaceBook inbox, and straighten your hair with a titanium-plated flat iron while toting large lightweight plastic containers on casters. The plastic could like melt. Duh.

Why had I assumed our eldest could handle the responsibility of house-sitting? After all, we had only recently discovered he was not always available to attend school. A message on the answering machine from the principal confirmed our senior can now proudly add truancy to his college-prep resume. It should not annoy me, but could he not have pulled off a more slacker-iffic Ferris Bueller in leopard print vest and parade instead of twelve straight hours of Final Fantasy? (I do sound ungrateful. Cate doesn't like it when we forget our blessings, so scratch everything about Ferris.)

While we were gone, both males suffered amnesia for the dishwasher we are so fortunate to own and also the casseroles I lovingly prepared. Their grimy plates were tossed carelessly into an overflowing sink next to the invisible appliance while healthy delicious food remained untouched in the frig.

Let's not obsess about teens, dishwashers, and casserole here. It makes me feel hypocritical and ancient. I remember my own mom ranting: RINSE YOUR DISH! DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THERE ARE LITTLE HANDS IN THAT MACHINE SCRUBBING YOUR STICKY PLATE CLEAN?

In fact (and I was rarely high on crack), that is EXACTLY what I needed to believe and prefer to think to this day. Yes. Little fairies inside the dishwashing machine cheerfully scrubbing their tiny fingers to the bone to erase my baked-on Nacho cheese. But fairies cannot do heavy lifting. They are counting on us to deposit the dishware.

Thank goodness we left that emergency cash. Bail is never cheap! Kidding. Our sons are actually quite gifted for eluding the law. Still, they're cursed with superhuman appetites so every last cent was blown on emergencies at Buffalo Wild Wings and Hooters.

It's forgivable.

Betty, Olive, and Cate agree hunger totally triggers temporary insanity when you suffer from excess responsibility, amnesia for casserole, and weakness for happy cabbage munchies.

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.