Another day of summer vacation day given to the service of catering to the #1 son. He had arranged a paintballfest with some cronies, even though I tried to tell him that paintball is not a good recreational activity in 96-degree heat. Lucky for him, the temp was only in the mid-80s today, after an evening of thunderstorms. You see, when boys play paintball, they drape themselves in excessive clothing so as not to feel the blast of the exploding paintballs on their tender skin. That means one young man was wearing camouflage coveralls. You know, coveralls, which are an insulated one-piece giant romper/sleeper kind of garb for adults, usually worn in the winter to (ahem) keep the wearer warm.
After a heaping lunch of corn dogs, chips, Little Debbie Nutty Bars, and multiple sodas, they did what any sensible youngster would do after gorging himself, and went swimming in Poolio. They called it swimming. From the sounds that penetrated the Mansion, I would have guessed that a team of Olympic squealers was practicing to defend its title. Not being one to shirk the care of other people's children, I cast a few glances out the kitchen mini-blinds at regular intervals. Though I found it disturbing that Charger was grabbed by both shoulders and unceremoniously shoved underwater faster than a BP oil spill cap, I did not dash outside and demand that they cease and desist. You can't exactly tell 15-year-olds that they can't dunk each other in a 4-foot-deep backyard pool. I considered myself ahead of the game because they were not jumping off the back porch rail into the pool, that being a height of 10 feet and horizontal distance of 6 feet.
Basementia Buddy called to announce that she would be picking up her son a bit early, due to a change in his baseball practice schedule. She asked, "What are those boys doing?" And I informed her, "Last time I checked, they were beating each other senseless with pool noodles." She gave her trademark HAW HAW HAW, and said how much her boy had been looking forward to the visit. Yeah. He's a world-class noodle-whacker.
Thank the Gummi Mary, my mom had asked if The Pony could come to her house. That could be the reason he's still kickin'. Those older boys are not Pony-friendly, though they do show a healthy respect when he's carrying his trombone case.
I am proud to announce that I survived the day without needing tranquilizers. The 15 trips in-and-out, tracked-in mud, left-behind wet towel, bathroom light/fan left on for 45 minutes, and detailed searching of every nook and cranny of the Mansion kind of put me on edge. But when a kid comes in, flops on the couch and puts his feet up, and sings the praises of Wife Swap to me...I figure I'm not as much of an ogre as #1 makes me out to be.
I'm still trying to figure out where these kids get the idea that my Mansion is their Mansion.