Nemesis, apparently

From where I'm sitting at the kitchen table I can see five, no, six baby dolls of varying sizes and skin tones sprawled on the family room floor. Plus one Barbie, face down in the carpet. There may have been some sort of massacre. There's also an open Pooh Bear laptop beside a pair of binoculars, as if dropped in haste by a spy who was disturbed at work. We had a playdate this morning. The victim of the massacre, in truth, was mostly me. (Fine. I.)

After lunch, such as it was, being a catch-as-you-can meal of bread and butter, or blueberry muffin, or bagel, I was hounded by the screaming hordes that comprise my two adorable, well-behaved children to such an extent that I fled upstairs with my book, and told B to take them away and put them in front of the TV, if he had to, to keep them off me.

He's taken them out to find a geocache now, a nice activity that keeps the three of them occupied and at least one of them interested for an hour or so. (It's like a treasure hunt using a GPS.) I greatly appreciate the peace and quiet and have no intention of picking up any of the mess, though I did put away some laundry.

Sometimes, though, I do wish that children didn't have to be constantly entertained so. I long for the day when they will just curl up with a good book and let me do the same. I look at them leaping around the house, from sofa to armchair like mountain gazelles who embrace the possibility of concussion (again) with every bound - "But Mummy, I didn't fall"; ergo, I never will - and with a sinking heart I know that someone has to take them at least outside, if not actually Out to a place where they can do that sort of thing in the fresh air and over a nice covering of soft woodchips.

Where do they get all their damn energy? (From their father, of course, who got up at 6am to run sixteen miles today.)