We have an ever-urgent need to distract our boys on a regular basis.  They act a bit like your typical soccer fan – excitable, but brutish when displeased – and since we’ve made a conscious descision as parents not to use riot gear or tear gas on our children, it becomes important to – HEY LOOK, something SHINY!  The need, when it arises (and it does often) almost invariably coincides with the boys having chosen some new way to express their individuality and control over our home.  Probably by screaming for the remote, or trying to put a stuffed animal into the KitchenAid, shoving their brother into the diaper pale, or catching sight of some other forbidden object or toy that is currently suffering from parental disapproval.

Our standby is a tub of Jelly Bellies.  Laura left behind a container of maimed and mangled gimp jelly bellies (factory rejects) which the boys have devoured with relish.  We’ve supplemented since then, of course, as these little skirmishes aren’t exactly infrequent.  So much for good teeth…   We also have a stash of toys in the den.  Not necessarily the most exciting toys, but ones they don’t use often, so if, for example, your son is screaming out his desperate lifelong desire to hold down the toilet handle until we have to build an arc, then you could say, “What about Robby the Robot???”  Suddenly a plastic robot is doing the electric slide on the floor, and your children are hiding under furniture wondering when this abomination will be destroyed.

I tend to fall back on highly age-inappropriate options.  Sometimes harmless (Wii remotes, anyone?)  And sometimes only moderately harmless (cordless drills, anyone?)  Really, I only ever earn offspring approval when I let my boys play with tools.  I’m going to buy them a Saws-All for Christmas.  Well, Nicholas, anyway.  Dexter’s getting a jackhammer.

Fortunately I am married, and have a spouse who really makes me wish that the homosexual community hadn’t appropriated the term “gay” for themselves, as I really can’t think of a better word to describe her than the 50′s version of the word.  Seriously, she has almost as little shame as Carter.  I really don’t know how Marilyn has managed to cope.

A few weeks ago Nicholas was losing it about god only knows what (probably mad that we wouldn’t let him climb into the dishwasher), jumping up and down and hitting his head on the couch.  To be fair, he is getting his 2-year molars, which is a well-documented excuse for any behavior short of Parenticide.  In this instance, instead of grabbing the soldering iron for some afternoon crafts, Katie did the only thing reasonable:  she scooped up Gizmo the stuffed animal, tossed him on her back, and started giving him doggy-back rides around the house.

Honestly, tell me there’s a single word better than old-school gay to describe this?  Regardless, Nicholas was a bit startled, and then concerned, so he tried to help him Mom pull back from the crazy by pretending to play along, which was moderately successful (she’s still nuts, but then she married me and has twin red headed boys, so we’re just hoping she manages to stay back from the “psychotic & homicidal” level).  Nicholas scooped up Trouble and gave him rides around the house as well.  I know it’s a little hard to see in this picture, since Trouble is a black lab and Nic’s wearing a dark brown shirt, but trust me, there’s a puppy hanging on to Nic for dear life.

There, another crisis averted.  At this rate, we’ll be dead by Friday, but we’ll surprise them with a victory cry and come out on top.  But then – HEY LOOK, something ELSE that’s SHINY!!!

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