Most of the time, I like my kids. I always love them, but sometimes I don’t like them, because I realize their cavemanish behavior reflects negatively on their dad and me. (Commence scathing e-mails, now.)

I knock heads the most with my middle child, hereafter referred to as Trouble, with a capital T. In my most frustrating mothering moments, people tell me it’s because he is “just like” me.

Apparently I am known for tattling, a short fuse and a smart-mouth.

Personally, I think it’s because he’s a lefty, as in left-handed. Left-handed means right-brained … right? … Thus, right-handed means left-brained.

I’m a righty, so Trouble and I clash on a regular basis. (I thought opposites were supposed to attract?)

My son is 7. He had a lefty as his kindergarten teacher. She said with a smile, “I’m in my right mind!”

I often wonder if Trouble is in his right mind. Not necessarily because he is antagonizing his siblings knowing full well he will be exiled to the Worst Place Ever (his room), but because he occasionally uses his right hand. He likes to keep us guessing … or confused.

Most recently, at basketball practice, the coach asked if anyone was left-handed: the obvious minority. Trouble did not speak-up, nor did I, because frankly, I wasn’t sure.

My son uses his left hand to write, draw and color. I am certain of this because I have seen him.

He also comes home from school every day with smudged papers and ink/marker/paint smeared from the tip of his left pinky up to his elbow. For this reason, among others, he doesn’t have many shirts with white sleeves.

Trouble swings a golf club via his right side and can bat right or left-handed. When playing baseball, he manages to make contact with the ball either way; it just depends on the day.

He throws with both hands, but can really get some distance with his left arm.

As for soccer, he uses his left leg to kick the ball, and when playing basketball he dribbles with his right hand and shoots with his left.

“Can you write your name with your right hand?” I asked him.

“No. It’s too hard,” he told me.

And I understand that completely. My left hand is useless, so when Trouble is helping me stir pancake batter I have to reverse my brain to demonstrate.

“No, it’s this way. Oh, wait … you are right, er, correct. Whatever, keep stirring. Just get the lumps out.”

Trouble is the first lefty in a family of righties. My brother married a lefty and he figured her out, so I have hope for my son and me.

Guess I will just have to get into my own right mind or else I will be left wondering what is going through his.