Funky

For about the last week, the children have all been wired. I’m talking about the kind of hyped-up, frenetic energy that would make a Tasmanian devil say, “Wow. You’re kind of a spaz!”

E has always been a high energy kid, but I’m talking about levels of activity that defy any relation to my gene pool. I tend to think of napping as a neglected art form.

Maybe it’s the cooler weather or maybe it’s because the evil marketing genius' have ramped up their campaign to make sure your child’s Christmas isn’t complete without a Barbie Jammin’ Jeep. In any case, we have reached new heights of enthusiasm for life in our household.

In fact, last night as I attempted to wrestle G into her pajamas, she suddenly exclaimed, “WAIT! I NEED TO GET FUNKY!”

And then proceeded to move to the middle of the living room where she danced like a disco queen with great gusto for the better part of four minutes until C finally told her she needed to take it down a notch.

But in spite of the fact that all the activity is about to kill me, I still have moments when I look at her (or any of the wee ones) and can’t believe she’s mine.

I had no idea I could love any one person this much.