I have a splitting headache. It’s 9:30 pm and I’ve just gotten the kids to bed. I could really use one of those Grey Goose martinis that I gave up five months ago. It was supposed to have been “sleep late Sunday.” It’s the one day of the week that there are no soccer practices, no piano lessons, swim lessons, gymnastics lessons. No shuttleing kids back and forth to kindergarden and preschool. One day to just sleep in and enjoy doing nothing. My kids have yet to appreciate the value of “sleep late Sunday.” Their general philosophy on the whole circadian rhythm sleep wake cycle is very basic. If the sun is up, it’s morning time and we get out of bed. Simple.
This morning I was awakened to the announcement, “Dad, Z fell down the stairs.”
In my pre-caffeine stupor all I could muster as a response was, “How many?”
“All of them,” came the reply. I was now fully awake and rushing down the stairs only to find Z sitting in the middle of the living room watching Little Einsteins. Not a care in the world. Nor a single mark for having traversed the flight of stairs as good or better than a Hollywood Stuntman. “Sleep late Sunday” had officially begun, an hour and a half earlier than I had planned.
The rest of the morning went off basically without a hitch. We had Mickey Mouse Pancakes
. They are actually waffles but there is absolutley no way of convincing my kids otherwise. One of the great joys of “sleep late Sunday” is that we have time in the mornings for something other than a quick bowl of cereal or yogurt or piece of fruit. After breakfast we started with the usual catch up on stuff we’ve neglected all week, laundry, clean the playroom, general house pick-up etc. etc., all in a lazy unhurried manner well in keeping with the general theme of “sleep late Sunday.”
An hour into our schedule the call came. The kids across the street wanted to come over and play. No big deal. We have a pretty large yard, almost 4 acres completely fenced. It’s a perfect place for our kids to romp and play safe and secure from the fears of traffic or feeling cramped or boxed in. It’s my understanding that the previous owners were pretty stingy when it came to kids playing in the yard, a waste in my opinion. So word spread pretty quickly that Zoë’s dad didn’t mind if the neighborhood kids played in the yard. My only request, let me know when you get here and when you leave. I have this neurotic thing about keeping an acurate head count. I mean, the yard is fenced but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s totally without danger.
It was a gorgeous day. Our typical winter grey skies turned baby blue with bright yellow sun. I could send the kids outside all day. Lord knows they needed it. Even the twins could get outside for some much needed fresh air. The day was going great. I, however, could feel the tension level rising. Granted, with five kids I’m always at a security threat level code yellow. But with each new smiling face that bounded through the gates to our little oasis my tensions grew. When we reached 12 kids I was definitely at code orange with several breeches warranting code red. The ages ranged from 14 months to 13 years. There was sliding, swinging, biking, chasing cats, riding dogs, and baseball. Just another typical day at the park except that the park was my backyard and none of the other kids parents were sitting on the benches with water bottles and occasional shouts of, “don’t grab the cat by it’s tail” or “stop eating sand.”
By the late afternoon, one of the represented parents had shown up. We were sitting on the deck chatting, observing the chaos and enjoying some lemonade. It’s actually my own little concoction of Limeade, Equal and San Pellegrino. But I digress. Then came the cry. Not too alarming at first. It was from the baseball end of the yard. The oldest participant, 13, was carrying one of the other kids towards the deck. He seemed to be in a hurry but wasn’t running. I casually said to my San Pellegrino enjoying friend, “Someone’s hurt.”
The injured boy’s sister met them half way across the yard and let out the most shrill, blood curdling scream I’ve heard in years. I casually turned to my San Pellegrino enjoying friend and said, “Well, there’s blood.”
It seems the younger kid, in his zeal to be an efficient catcher forgot the most important rule in being a catcher. Let the ball go past the batter before you try to catch it. To my good fortune, the kid was a clotter and not a bleeder. I was able to get him cleaned up pretty well before walking him back home to explain to his parents how their kid got broken on my watch. They were very understanding. Their only request was for me to look after their other kids while they made the trip to the ER. I felt it was the least I could do.
Two and one half hours and 14 stitches later, everyone was back in their respective homes. We were all dog tired in that “boy we had a great day” sort of way. With my crew of Zs bathed and in bed I am finally able to relax, lower the threat level to yellow and repeat a little mantra I always heard my mom say on just such a weary evening, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I’m still not quite sure I know what it means, but somehow it felt appropriate tonight.
Look closely at the tent in the picture. My first tent was exactly like that. Standard 
