We had a wonderful holiday yesterday. After years of lukewarm dinners, eaten at high speed while attending to the nutrition needs of small people, I enjoyed an almost leisurely meal with my parents, my sister, my husband and my wee little monkeys. If you would have told me a year ago that this was even remotely possible, I would have chuckled in disbelief.

It seems that my children are not only growing physically, they are learning how to be civilized. *Gasp*

I sound like the most naive parent in the world, I'm sure. I live with these chest pounding, vine swinging, tree climbing, primal screaming jungle children. Every morning, I grab my machete and hack down a few vines as I beat a path into the wilderness. I see the potential there - the intelligence, the warmth, the humor, the raw strength and unbridled joy, coupled with the innate need to laller laller laller and strip nekkid at any given moment.

My aim is not that of an anthropologist - the pygmies in THIS forest are subjected to outside culture and influence. My role is to teach these savages to be ladies and gentlemen. I put on my pith helmet and mosquito spray and head in, hoping that by the end of the day, the children will say "Yes, I want to leave the jungle and come live in society and wear clothes."

We read books and discuss endlessly the advantages of being cultured. Still, book learning and behavioral experiments in a controlled (ie, my kitchen) setting don't always translate well to the outside world.

There have been many events in the past where I have dressed my children to froofy glory, and led them out into the world to display my fine skills as a Savage Reformer. "You can dress them up, but you can't take them out" originated right here. Oh, the stories I could tell of babies in party dresses sitting spread-eagle with maryjane decked feet propped up on the stroller tray - of disappearing armpit manuevers and slumped, playing dead toddlers - and let's not forget the nose picking.

Part of my problem is my anthropologic interest in these yahoos of mine. I watch with envy as they swing across the monkey bars. I see their joy as they sit behind the armchair/scary cave and feel nudges from my own inner savage, longing for the jungle. As I applied my daily war paint, the kids asked for eyeliner whiskers on their cheeks. I obliged and watched as they galloped on all fours, growling and snarling. Turning my attention back to my own face, I fought the urge to pencil on whiskers of my own.

Despite our constant teaching process, it's hard to be objective. I would love to make a blanket statement about the fact that my kids are well-mannered. It just can't be done, though. They still have that wildness, and I don't give them the benefit of the doubt often enough.

It was with surprise and pride that I watched my children enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, participating in the conversation and behaving politely. Here, finally, was proof that my attempts to tame the wilderness was not futile. (Stop laughing, Mom.)

As we loaded the kids into the car, my son drifted off to sleep, but both daughters stayed quietly alert. As we pulled into the garage and began to unload the van, I noticed both girls were meditatively picking their noses, while gazing out the window. "Hey, are you digging for gold?" I asked the oldest. She turned sleepy eyes to me, and said, "I'm a Goooooold Diggah. Digging for Goooooooold." The baby echoed, "Gooooooold!"

I put my machete back in the holster and covered my face with my pith helmet so they wouldn't see me laughing.