"You shouldn't have children, let alone a dog."

Wowww. Isn't that the most tender, thoughtful, kind-hearted sentiment?

That was the adoring piece of fan mail I received after my most recent column, the one about our family getting a four-legged friend (and a bad case of buyers remorse).

After taking my head out of the oven, I thought ... well, maybe my new best friend and cyberbully is right. There are so many days when I wonder how I could possibly be worse at this, when I'm screechy, when I want to go into the witness protection program for a night or two, when I (ahem) do not handle things well.

But good grief, if we're honest, that's true of all of us who devote 18-plus years of our lives to the parenting business.

None of us are equipped for the grinding minutia of this mammoth task.

Our buttons are pushed in ways no other human beings have dared push them.

And when the grocery cart is overflowing with a screaming toddler, when the sippie cup of milk is poured into the seat cushions, when the tween is glowering into their breakfast cereal, we're supposed to be able to instantly call upon the highlighted sections of that stack of parenting books on the bedside table and respond with loving, lightning-fast, Dr. Spock-like wisdom.

Sometimes - hallelujah! - we do, and the angels rejoice at our patience and our sage awesomeness.

But - gasp! - sometimes we don't. Sometimes we epically fail. And that's where, I think, we have to laugh.

(Oh sure, pray for forgiveness first. And definitely go back and highlight those books again, this time in hot pink.)

But somewhere in there - preferably before, after, and in-between - you have to laugh.

That's what I've tried to do in this column.

I've tried to make you feel like a friend at my sticky dining table - the one covered with the detritus of last week's unexamined Friday Folders and dotted with fake maple syrup from last night's pancake dinner.

It's been a place to lay it all out, to feel less alone, and yes, to mock without mercy some of the stupid stuff of family life.

And oh mama, I have laid out a country mile of stupid stuff over the years. I mean, I've been writing these tales since Will's first day of 3-year-old preschool. (He's nearly in double-digits now.)

That's a long time to hear me rant, rave and generally over-share.

And more and more, it's begun to feel like I've said what I had to say.

The uniquely difficult days of raising young children are giving way to more complicated issues, ones that should perhaps be held a little closer to the chest. And the old issues, well, they've frankly been done to death.

I think it's time to take a step back, to write about other things and other people besides the ones under my roof - except, of course, when those people do things I just have to tell you about. Trust me, it won't be long.

So these aren't the closing credits. I still plan to write more tales from this crib -not every month perhaps, but just as the mood strikes, like when I simply must proffer my thoughts on humiliating Halloween costumes for dogs or let you in on a ridiculous story about my kid being the only one at the third-grade concert without his recorder ... on the front row.

Yes, you'll be hearing a little less from me. But just think of all the free time I'll have to catch up on all those parenting books on my bedside table.

Or to binge-watch all eight seasons of "24."

Either way, the end result is obviously going to be some truly dynamic parenting.

Prepare to send fan mail.

DEEDEE FILIATREAULT TRIES TO BE A FREELANCE WRITER IN NIANTIC WHILE HER KIDS "DO NOTHING" AT SCHOOL. WRITE TO HER AT DEEDEECT@SBCGLOBAL.NET.