RUN everyone!

Everyday I come in to the room, I survey the bathroom, windows, drawers, closets, and shelves to make sure there are no dead bodies. I usually half expect either Mary Kate, Julie, or Kat to be strung up from one set of our now nearly-completely depleted Christmas lights as they desperately fought it out for the last roll of toilet paper.

Alas, never have I found their bodies. What WOULD have been more likely to be sitting quietly decomposing in our room would have been a wee little mouse that has allegedly been keeping us company for the past couple of weeks.

All we have managed to catch in the sticky trap so far is:

1. Dust
2. The top part of a mechanical pencil
3. Hair
4. Dirt
5. My toes
6. Paper towel bits
7. Someone's severed body (EVERYTHING'S more fun with dead bodies, right?)

Our method of catching a mouse has taken the following course:

1. I saw a mouse
2. I said "There's a mouse in the kitchen!"
3. Julie started wailing and nearly called the ASPCA on me when I suggested using rat poison instead of luring it out with...what else? CHEESE! BRILLIANT!

(It did not work. Because, come on, this isn't Tom and Jerry we're talking about.)

Then as the mouse started being spotted in different random places, the sticky traps have been moved to corresponding locations. By this time, the sticky traps look little better than 5 year old lint rollers, but no matter, we have FINALLY made it to about 2 feet away from the front door, so hopefully this mouse, which has seemingly been repelled by the sticky traps, will be propelled out the front door.

On Friday afternoon, I got to take care of Matthew and Ethan for a few hours while the parents were out to eat with the graduating seniors. Normally, this would have been the job of Juan José Lado.

Juan knows how to put together the slide game that is I swear is so intricate and so POORLY depicted that a physics major who just figured out how to get to another dimension would not be able to put it together. There are no ACTUAL directions. There is just the picture on the box which, what'll you know, is covered up by SMALLER pictures and wording exalting the child-friendliness and excitement of this game! Get the whole family together! Watch dad use all those words you had to cover your ears for in that one movie when he's trying to figure out if that red slide is actually the longer or the shorter one.

Sorry. I don't like giving up. Anyway...

Juan knows how to work the DVD player. Juan would give out 80,000 candies instead of just 4.

After exhausting all possibilities inside, including playing the game of "let's see how much mac and cheese you can fit on your fork," I decided the only move after that would be to adjourn outside at the playground. Not only are there not too many sharp corners outside, but there are also woodchips on the playground to douse in gasoline and light afire in case I need to get rid of any toddlers who annoy me.

So out to the playground I go. Ethan wants to play in the sandbox, Matthew wants nothing more than to climb up and down a staircase pretty far from the sandbox.

This is an honest question now: What are you supposed to do in this case? Is it ok to leave a 3-something year old kid alone in a sandbox with lots of other people around while you go and watch a 1-something year old laboriously heave himself up a staircase in another part of the playground? Are you supposed to NOT cater to both of their desires?

Because, guess what. I did. While Ethan amused himself in the sandbox, Matthew and I went over to the staircase, and I let him climb. And did he ever climb. I was kind of pissed off that I forgot my camera, because the photo opportunities were numerous. Already worried about his figure, Matthew was treating this staircase like it was the Stairmaster for Squirts. He had a little trouble at first, and there was a huge traffic jam while others clambered to go up the staircase, but he would determinedly put one foot in front of the other until he made it to the top. If I dared to help him at all, like boost him up a stair or two to hurry him along, he would kind of look at me like "GOD, don't you get what's going on here?", would return to where he was, and would step up on his own. After a mere 20 minutes, that child conquered the art of going UP stairs. Going down stairs was another matter entirely different. That took another good 30 minutes.

By the end, though, he was flying up and down those stairs like nobody's business. Woodchips churning, his legs a blur of speed, Matthew could charge at that staircase ferociously enough to strike fear in the heart of any jungle gym. After reaching the top and the bottom successfully, he would proudly turn to me and bellow out "YAAAAAAAAY!"

I was kind of surprised anyone was left at the playground. The macaroni and cheese we had for dinner had long since traveled through his digestive system and erupted into his diapers. However, ever conciliatory, and not particularly eager to change a diaper with atomic poop, I only took action until absolutely necessary. Namely, after 3 ladies asked me when I had him, how old he was, and after I noticed that Ethan's toys were fast becoming the communal sand box toys while he was cowering in a corner away from all those insane toddlers.

I grabbed Matthew by the waist, trying to hold him as far away as possible, because, dear God, the stench! while he flailed desperately to get ahold of any uncovered inch of skin on my body. Because he likes to touch bare skin, as Sarah clarified for me a different day. So there he was, desperately flailing up and down my shirt simultaneously as I tried to make sure his bottom was as far away as possible from me.

Thursday and part of Friday I had what I could only self diagnose by placing chocolate candy on my forehead to watch melt within 3 seconds as a fever. I guess not sleeping properly caught up to me for a little bit, because I felt like I had a plastic bag covering my face and every step I had to climb up a staircase felt like I was carried up into the atmosphere at least 50 feet, and the oxygen up there was fast thinning. Maybe it wasn't THAT bad, but well, I haven't been sick for a long while. Thursday I wanted nothing more than to take a bath and sleep. That turned into take a bath, nap and drool copiously, and do homework. Wa, wa.

I've been sitting for a while trying to figure out what exactly I want to say. God knows I don't frequently wish I could wear diapers or just be young enough to have everyone do everything for me to solve my problems, since I value the so-called independence I have now of deciding when to take a nap, or that I will indeed take responsibility for screwing up yet again on something. I guess what I wish would occur more is that I could simply solve someone's problems, or make someone feel better by simply being.

Here comes the running part. This is NOT me being maternal.

So I didn't really mind walking around a crowded playground with more skin that decent showing. Because Matthew felt better, and so did I.

Christ. This is one long post.