(Gone to the Squirrels)

This is definitely off-topic.

However: to give some context for what will follow, I've long been a (relatively) confident father--confident that I have spent significant time with my children, and that they love and respect me, and that (in all but a few respects) my kids know me as a true sharer of their care.

But maybe this was hubris all along, because I suddenly feel unable to control (manage, steer, cajole, bribe) these people, and my days are careening between relative calm and throw-up-your-hands powerlessness.

They've got me outnumbered.

Lauren is away for a few days, which means a lot of quality time with my kids.

Okay, so far it means all of my waking hours have been with the kids (and most of the sleeping ones too, since I inadvertently spent last night--fully dressed, like some passed-out college student--in a Norah's little bunk bed, after cuddling her to sleep).

(Come to think of it, I might have fallen asleep before she did.)

This period finds Norah being particularly willful, and I fear I've lost all control--of her, of him, of the whole daily shebang. To whit:

-Yesterday while making dinner I came outside to find that the kids had punctured a can of orange paint, and that Norah had smeared it all over her forearms and hands, and that Fergus was very carefully turning the driveway into an homage to Jackson Pollack.

-After foolishly helping Norah onto the roof of our woodshed this morning (did she charm me into it? What was I thinking?), she climbed onto the peak of the adjoining garage (20 feet high?) and taunted me, refusing to come down.

-At the end of gymnastics class this morning I had to literally dive into the bottomless pit of foam to drag my kids out. The dive was fun. The dragging out: not so much.

-After taking them for maple creamies this afternoon, I chastised Norah for squishing her nice shoes over and over into the deep mud in the parking area, and in response she climbed in the car, threw gravel at my head, and got mud all over the back of my seat.

-Tonight while I made dinner, Norah scavenged in the cupboards while I wasn't paying attention and scattered trails of Grape Nuts and peanuts (in the shell) from the front porch, into the living room, and down the hall to her bedroom. How she did this without my noticing I have no idea. I mean, it's not like I was making anything exotic for dinner. We're talking turkey burgers with macaroni and cheese. When I asked her what she was up to, she said she was luring squirrels into the house.

"What are you going to do with these squirrels?" I asked, as she counted a long row of peanuts on the living room floor.

"Put them in my room," she said, matter-of-factly.

"To do what?" I asked.

"Help me make it pretty," she said, as if it was all but obvious. She got to the end of the row. "I'm hoping to get forty-eight in the house."

"One for every peanut?"

"Yes," she said.

"Forty-seven," said Fergus, cracking open a peanut at the other end of the row.

She then set to work naming all of the squirrels, and writing their names down in careful/jubilant 5-year-old handwriting. Fourteen was as far as she got tonight:

1. Nuttkin
2. Knockout
3. Squeaksqueak
4. Goforit
5. Mutts
6. Beat
7. Seashell
8. Daffodil
9. Sailboat
10. Crab
11. Fishwish
12. Island
13. Sea
14. Castles

Presumably she'll be naming the rest of them tomorrow. And, you know, I'll be doing a lot of careful breathing exercises.