Last week, President Obama signed an executive order creating the White House Council on Women and Girls. He did so with a speech in which he praised the perseverance and pluck of his own single mother, the grandmother who ultimately raised him, and especially his wife, whom he credited for her exceptional skill as mother to their two daughters.

Under the direction of his longtime political pal Valerie Jarrett, Mr. Obama has added membership on this council to the already daunting list of tasks of every Cabinet-level appointee. He says the council's job will be to ensure that the feminist agenda saturates public policy on all levels.

The president gathered the A-listers of feminism to celebrate his announcement, including the leaders of the National Organization for Women, NARAL Pro-Choice America and Emily's List. Others who work to advance the cause of women and girls (but not abortion rights), were not in attendance. Probably an oversight.

I used to think it was the hormones in chicken that were ruining our culture. I'm not exactly a natural food freak, but given the 90 pounds per person of chicken Americans consume in a year, you have to wonder whether those hormones aren't responsible for road rage and a willingness to deficit spend and even the early onset of puberty in children.

If not our chicken, perhaps it's our media. Maybe two generations of MTV programming that glorifies sex and drugs, plus magazine headlines such as one on the cover of this month's issue of Cosmopolitan - “You, you, you - How to be happier with one tiny change” - have succeeded in reorienting our cultural compass.

I'm always on the lookout for a simple explanation for the general rudderlessness that now seems to define America. Well, my search is over because I finally found it. The culprit is...

It's been a week of rough rides in the minivan. Midwest potholes being what they are, I wish I had a Lunar Roving Vehicle in my garage. Our roads resemble pictures of craters on Mars, or worse, the new federal budget - big, dark and dangerous.

I don't take my responsibilities in the driver's seat lightly, so I've learned to avoid the unforgiving cavities that have formed beneath the snow all winter, awaiting my aluminum wheels. The potholes I can't avoid - the ones causing all the rocky rides in my van these days - are the parenting variety.

Being the mother of three teenagers, you might assume that I'm up to my steering wheel in teen angst, anger and rebellion, but I'm not.

No, the one at the heart of all the consternation (hers, not mine) is the 11-year-old - my "tween" - and the issue that has us haggling back and forth in a familiar dance of pleading and denial:

A week ago, the bizarre story of 13-year-old Alphie Patten landed on the front pages of Britain´s tabloid press, subsequently circulating around the globe. Even Britons, known for bawdy humor and infamous sex scandals, were shocked by the news that a boy could have fathered a child.

Even more outrageous than the freakish photo of man-child and baby is the revelation that the precocious sex life enjoyed by Alphie and his 15-year-old girlfriend was well known to their parents.

How exactly did Britain, the center of the British Empire, become an urban jungle for emerging sexuality that has not been seen since 1980's “The Blue Lagoon”?

One of these days someone is finally going to trip and fall off the landing in front of the back door. There will be blood. Perhaps a concussion. But then at least one of my children will understand why I've nagged all these years about putting the shoes where they belong.

They belong in the baskets, clearly marked with the names of my four children - the baskets that sit conveniently on the shelves next to the door. Depositing a pair of shoes into a basket can be done in one fluid motion, taking no more effort than it would to bend over and pick up any object, say a pencil or a dollar bill.

I've tried everything I can think of to get my children to develop this habit short of actually tossing money out the door. I'm certain if I did this, my kids would snatch the cash and leave the shoes on the steps.

I guess I'm just unrealistic, but such is the curse of a parent.

I walk into the kitchen just in time to hear my 11-year-old daughter summarize for her father the destiny of anyone cast as a celebrity apprentice for Donald Trump: "It's the sign that you're just another clump of dried seaweed washed up on the beach of pop culture."

There's no time for a lecture on cynicism before school, and besides, she has a point.

The cast of NBC's upcoming "The Celebrity Apprentice" series has somehow managed to offer gainful - if short-term - employment to country singer Clint Black, former NBA star (and tattoo canvas) Dennis Rodman and the perennially Botoxed Joan Rivers.

Times are tough. People need work, and as gigs go, even a short-lived career with "The Donald" can be lucrative. Remember Omarosa? And besides, these celebrities work for charity.

But I digress.

This is what people always say when they learn that I'm the mother of three teenagers and a tween - "Whoa ... I guess you spend a lot of time hearing how stupid you are."

Usually the people who say this also are the parents of teens, and the comment comes as an attempt to bond over our presumed mutual suffering from the ill effects of our adolescent's bad attitudes.

I heard a comment like this recently at the doctor's office, when I mentioned that I have a 14-year-old son. "Oh, my kid is 15," came the reply. "I never knew how dumb I was until now. But that's just a teenager for ya. Right?"

Decision time: Do I say, "It is a dumb adult, indeed, who lets a teenager speak to him as though he is a potted plant," or do I smile and nod in deference to the needle he holds in his hand?

School days are hectic enough around my house without a distraction as powerful as the TV. It's all we can do to make lunches, review the day's plans and find the homework that never seems to make it into the backpack the night before.

The last thing we need on a school day is Illinois Gov. Rod R. Blagojevich to throw off our routine. But I confess I wish I'd had the TV on Tuesday when the embattled governor talked about his "Capra-esque" existence and why, for the sake of his young daughters, he launched a media blitz to salvage his reputation.

Mr. Blagojevich told the morning crew at CBS that taking his case to the court of public opinion was not an effort to soften the potential jury pool for his federal trial, a conclusion he called "cynical." Rather, he said it was a last-ditch attempt to get the Illinois state Senate to change its rules and allow him to air his audiotapes and summon specific witnesses to his defense at his impeachment trial.

Unfortunately, the Illinois Senate was actually holding its impeachment trial while the governor made the rounds on the morning-news circuit, so I guess they were too busy to watch TV. (Or maybe they were just trying to find last night's homework.)

"Mom," Amy said in her most serious tone, "I have to get dad to run for president. That's the only way I'm going to meet the Jonas Brothers."

Amy and I had been watching Monday night's televised "Kids' Inaugural: We Are the Future," a live concert hosted by Michelle Obama, Jill Biden and the Obama Inaugural Committee at Washington's Verizon Center. Working with the folks from the Disney Channel, they put on a tween extravaganza and somehow in the process managed to connect the dots between the presidency and the nation's most popular teenage idols - Nick, Joe and Kevin Jonas.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the Disney franchise managed to insert itself into this week's historic presidential inauguration. Disney is a lot of things, but dumb isn't one of them.

Last night for dinner, I served butternut squash. Despite the fact that I drizzled it with olive oil and seasoned it with salt and pepper and then roasted it until the flesh caramelized slightly and got all tender and yummy, I subsequently had to force-feed my four children to consume this delicious, nutritious vegetable.

Later in the evening, I chased two of my teenagers off to bed. I have to chase people to bed because if I don't, they would stay up until Conan O'Brien waves goodnight. Despite the fact that bed is a warm and comfy place where, once ensconced, these same teens would remain for upward of 14 hours at a stretch, I must still nag them to go there.

This morning, on the chance she didn't hear her alarm clock, I tiptoed through the dark into my daughter's bedroom to be sure she was up in time to finish her extra-credit trigonometry assignment.

Parenting is ever thus. We nag about food and rest and responsibilities because, even though nagging is unpleasant and even frustrating, it's the right thing to do. It's how we moms and dads implement our evil strategies to bring unhappiness upon our offspring - unhappiness disguised as good nutrition, ample sleep and academic achievement.

Every parent knows that doing what's good for our children doesn't always feel good to us. If you doubt this, think back to when your pediatrician first told you about rectal thermometers and why they were best for accuracy in diagnosing fevers in tiny babies.