Now and then there comes a time when the bills pile up, the funds run low, and it seems as if our empty bank accounts ring with a hollow, cavernous echo.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com. These times call for extreme measures, and my husband, Pat, likes to gather the family 'round the table, call an informal meeting and then attempt to hit the financial nails on the proverbial head.

And it truly is as painful as it sounds.

We, the other five members of the Clinch household, have found there's nothing like a fun-filled meeting that we like to call "Where does all of the stinking money go?"

What it lacks in luster it more than makes up for with enthusiasm, and nothing gets the gusto going for the Clinch family like the ever-loving question, "How much money do we have in our account?"

That fun little inquiry is promptly followed by "How much?" and then "You're stinking kidding me?" "You're not kidding me?" "How much did you say again?"

Well, it's not as if a large hand is going to come out of the sky and start tapping on a calculator to answer that one. And since I'm the one who budgets for the milk every week, I suppose it would only be natural that all eyes turn and focus upon me.

The prospect of such an inquisition might very well have some women shaking in their boots. A weaker being might even feel put upon. But I'm nothing if not seasoned and well versed. I have budget reports, financial statistics, and when all else fails, I'm quick to point out the fact that I clip coupons.

"It's not an easy task to come up with enough dough to raise the children to an adequate height," I said at a recent inquisition. "Not to mention the utility bills are cutting into the funds, the cost of gas has left us running on empty, and Lord knows that cup of Friday-night cheer doesn't pay for itself."

Not one to be easily dissuaded, Pat - aka the familial CEO, chairman and allaround nice guy - came back with, "It would still seem that we're spending the money faster than we can make it."

Once again, all of the eyes at the table turned to look at me, and I'll be danged if one of our ungrateful kids didn't say, "Well, Mom's wearing a new shirt."

If that didn't tear it! And to think I gave birth to that unthankful ingrate.

"Well, look who's talking, Mr. High Dollar Running Shoes," I quickly responded. Like I said, I'm not only seasoned but I'm well versed.

"I need these shoes for gym class," my child said in his defense.

"Well, I needed this shirt for my lunch date."

Pat is nothing if not an efficient chairman, and he brought the meeting back to the task at hand with a well-thought-out "Were any of these items approved in the budget?"

"About as much as Vernon's high-dollar socks," said Huey, as he continued to sling the mud.

Again, all eyes were focused upon me, and I'll be danged if some of them weren't accusatory. "Lori," said Pat, "I cannot believe that you bought Vernon high-dollar socks."

"I had a coupon."

"Yeah, for, like, 50 cents," said the unappreciative Huey.

"Hey," interjected Vernon, and I couldn't help but feel relief because no one can debate, deliberate or defend like Vernon. I thought he'd come across with an ironclad defense, an indisputable justification and a darned good excuse. Instead he simply said, "I need good socks."

"Lori," said my husband, "why would you get the kids hooked on high-dollar socks?"

"I didn't get him hooked on them; he picked that habit up at college. I told you no good would come of him leaving us and going to school."

And so it went. We made our arguments and picked up steam, and by the time we were done, we'd all told on each other and disclosed everything from my lipstick fetish to little Charlie's gumchewing habit.

We still don't know where all of the money is going, but I'll tell you this: from now on if they want something outside of the budget, they can clip their own stinking coupons.