Tag Archives: family

Running from Labor Day

September, already?

Honestly, I don’t know how we got here. Somewhere between Memorial Day and Labor Day, time slipped out the back door without so much as a goodbye. One moment I was dutifully buying sunscreen and popsicles, and the next thing I know, we’re knee-deep in sharpened pencils, lopsided backpacks, and the collapse of all illusions that summer still has any life left in it.

Labor Day, for us, was extravagantly uneventful. We made no plans—unless you consider “trying to stop the children from recreating scenes out of a medieval torture manual in the living room” to be plans. Which, in fairness, it probably is. My children have acquired a new pastime: exacting as much physical and emotional damage on one another as possible, all before noon. The soundtrack to this, of course, is a relentless chorus of shrieking, crying, and at least one nosebleed (always the middle child, who, bless him, seems doomed to a life of collateral damage). We have thus far managed to avoid the emergency room, but I can practically feel it penciled onto the horizon of future weekends.

Naturally, the boys would have been perfectly content to spend the entire three days motionless in front of the TV, embalmed in potato-chip crumbs. But, because we are excellent parents—or at least stubborn ones—we forced them outdoors. They ran half-heartedly around the block in under five minutes, returned looking betrayed, and then managed to ask for snacks roughly every three minutes until bedtime. Forty-six snack requests in an afternoon. I did the math.

Now, I like to imagine myself as calm, patient, and capable of handling these miniature crises with grace. This is a delusion. At the tenth spilled cup of juice or the eighth announcement that last week’s “favorite meal of all time” is now “too disgusting to even look at,” something inside me snaps. It’s usually at this point that my husband, recognizing danger, quietly slides into the scene like a diplomatic envoy, defending my honor and ushering me away before I declare dinner a lost cause and start packing my bags for Monaco.

And so here we are: September. A new school year, a new season, and new opportunities to relearn multiplication tables, lose library books, and discover that my children’s capacity for whining is in fact infinite. Still, I’m clinging to the lofty goal of keeping my head—and occasionally even my sense of humor—through it all.

Here’s to a month of beginnings, cooler heads, and hopefully fewer nosebleeds.

Running from a Pickaxe

Tax-free week in Ohio is the back-to-school version of Rope Drop at Magic Kingdom. If you’re a parent, you know the drill: you’ve got a list longer than the line for Peter Pan’s Flight, desperate for deals and every coupon clipping you can snag. Last Saturday, the Thompsons charged into the outlet malls like it was the opening bell at Black Friday—fast, purposeful, semi-delirious.

Now, if you’ve ever wandered World Showcase in August, you’ll be familiar with the special brand of sweaty exhaustion that set in as we wound our way through the stores, kids melting faster than a Mickey bar in July. Coupon victory came hard, but eventually we limped home, untamed shopping bags in tow, seasoned and slightly singed around the edges.

But the magic didn’t end there! A sign at the end of our street declared in bold: “Garage Sale. Tools and Man Stuff.” For those who share their home with another adult, this was less a suggestion and more a legally compelling summons. Chas vanished faster than a Lightning Lane slot at Rise of the Resistance, Oz in tow, clearly hoping to unearth some hidden Indiana Jones relic (or at least another stick to add to his collection).

Ten minutes and one mini-expedition later, they reappeared, faces radiating unspoken adventure—think dads after surviving EPCOT’s Food & Wine with only a wallet mildly damaged. Moments later, Oz, our seven-year-old, appeared clutching a ten-dollar bill and loudly proclaiming his new life ambition: acquiring a pickaxe. Cue visions of him storming Frontierland, wielding his new prize, with me nervously calculating just how quickly Child Protective Services would respond in our zip code. But hey, boring never makes for good park stories or memorable family runs.

If there’s a lesson buried beneath the layers of outlet shopping, surprise hardware quests, and the ever-present din of “when does school start”—it’s this: structure is more magical than any Cinderella castle. By the time the school year finally started this morning, my fifth grader bolted for the door like he was rope-dropping Seven Dwarfs Mine Train; his enthusiasm was nothing short of Disney magic itself, and I couldn’t be prouder to stand on the sidelines, medal or no medal.

My second grader approached with equal excitement, though laced with those opening day jitters familiar to anyone who’s ever tried a new ride (or new lunch table). He’ll be making friends by lunchtime, probably organizing a lunchroom conga line just to make things interesting.

The preschooler, meanwhile, is pure Tomorrowland—marching to his own futuristic beat, running operations with a tone that suggests he skipped straight past “Cast Member” to “Attraction Manager.” If anyone’s wondering, yes, I’m bracing for parent-teacher conferences featuring references to “leadership skills” (read: tiny tyrant).

But I crave the rhythm as much as the kids do. And after a summer of running from everything—chaos, coupons, pickaxes—I’m ready to settle down with a fastpass for structure and a side of predictability.

So, here’s to tax-free weeks, unexpected adventures, and the kind of family training that leaves you with memories more magical than any race medal or Disney pin. May your journeys be as joyful and slightly unpredictable as a day at the parks—and may your neighbors never need to speed-dial CPS.

And the morning rope drop? Well, we made it. Just keep running forward.

Running from Everything: The August Marathon

Here in the thick of August, we find ourselves on the last, long lap of summer—the kind you run when you can both see the finish line and also suspect it might, in fact, be moving further away every time you glance up. In our house, the new school year is lurking just around the last bend: two weeks for the kids, but my husband and I are up for a head start with students next week. If this were a Disney race, we’d already have hit the castle, gotten distracted by a Dole Whip, and realized we still have to finish.

I work all summer, so my personal schedule doesn’t change much—it’s the unremarkable “Tomorrowland Speedway” of routines: reliable, uninspired, and a little too loud. But my husband and our kids? Their summer is pure Magic Kingdom chaos: rope drop every morning, parades all day, fireworks every night. Bedtime and wake-up times are more like vague suggestions, as if the laws of time only apply to mortals living outside the borders of summer vacation.

But race director that I am, I know better than to let the “RunDisney After Party” lifestyle run all the way to the start line of school. With two weeks left, I’ve activated the dreaded Operation: Earlier Bedtimes, much to the dismay of the crew who have become accustomed to living like nocturnal pirates. If I don’t do this now, the first day of school will look less like the opening moments of a Disney half marathon and more like the “balloon ladies” coming for anyone left at the back.

To try and restore balance (or at least fake it long enough to get us to the first bell), I’m putting us all on a reentry plan worthy of any Dopey Challenge: one room gets cleaned each day, one load of laundry run, and there’s a loose attempt at meal planning, in between the usual nutritional gambit of “Is this leftover pizza or the lost-and-found churro from last week?” I know this will pay off with more evenings free for kid activities, maybe even some peaceful runs around the neighborhood—my solo laps through the EPCOT of suburban life, waving to neighbors like we’re all characters in some elaborate parade.

Most days, I’m just trying to help my kids (and myself) become finishers in the marathon of “life skills.” The goal isn’t perfection; it’s having options. I want my kids to try gymnastics, football, science club, trombone—whatever piques their curiosity, like a list of Genie+ reservations: the more you sample, the better your story. Back in my day, exploring wasn’t so easy, and specializing was rarely a choice. I’ve found that being a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none has gotten me far: kind of like being able to race all four Disney parks, rather than winning one. In my career and as a coach, I see again and again that it’s the kids who diversify—who build different muscles, learn from new experiences, and sometimes even get a little lost along the way—who really go the distance.

And that’s what I’m aiming for: a family ready not just for school, but for the miles and magic that come after the starting gun sounds.

Running from the Crib

Something quietly earth-shaking happened at my house this week: I took down the crib. For the uninitiated, disassembling a crib is a parental rite of passage roughly equivalent to sending a child off to college, but with more Allen wrenches and slightly less tuition-related panic.

Wynn, who’s now three, has reached a level of lankiness previously reserved for NBA rookies and particularly ambitious green beans. The child has sprouted so effectively that his toes threatened to claim squatters’ rights on the far end of the crib. Add to this our household tradition of “musical beds”—a nightly game in which children ignore both boundaries and physics by cramming themselves into whatever sleep surface seems most inconvenient for the adults—and you have a recipe for familial togetherness. Not long ago, I discovered Wynn and our ten-year-old squished together in the crib, as if it were a tiny vessel crafted entirely from teething bars and childhood memories.

And so, the crib came down. I thought I’d feel only joy at this new, baby-stuff-free era. Instead, it’s orbiting somewhere between minor liberation and “oh look, my heart’s leaking a little sadness.” I barely got to savor Wynn’s littlest days; a stroke took that easy glow and replaced it, temporarily, with medical charts and pill bottles. Now, suddenly, the “baby” part of our life is tiptoeing quietly (yet somehow loudly) toward the rear exit.

Let’s take stock for posterity:

  • Binkys: Nighttime only, thank you very much.
  • Pull-ups: Also nighttime only—we’re nothing if not selectively mature.
  • Bottles: Still appearing more often than I’d admit on a parent survey, but there is significant improvement.

There’s a thrill in being free of strollers and diaper bags. I haven’t wielded a stroller in a year, and I feel like I should get a merit badge—unless, of course, the destination is someplace immense and Disney-branded, at which point all bets (and dignity) are off.

Last week, Wynn cracked the code of pedaling a bike without the assist of training wheels, leaving me to marvel at his skill and quietly assess my insurance deductible. He’s officially a pro. Yet he still naps hard—truly, with the kind of dedication only the very young or the spectacularly elderly can muster.

He’s little, yes, but growing. I’m clutching remnants of babyhood like they’re the last snacks on a long road trip, but what’s left is precious. So, if you see me lingering in the toddler aisle at Target, looking misty-eyed at a bottle of baby shampoo, just know I’m not ready to let go. Not quite yet.

If childhood flies by, at least let it leave a trail of mismatched socks, bike helmets, and—just for a little longer—the echo of lullabies in a room where a crib once stood.

Running from MRI Season: Another Lap Around the Track

Since 2022, I’ve had a standing date with an MRI machine every year—my own personal Groundhog Day, except instead of a rodent predicting the weather, it’s a giant magnet peering into my brain and predicting, well, me. The scans always show the same old stroke souvenirs (thanks for the memories, 2022!), but otherwise, things have been reassuringly uneventful until last week.

This year’s MRI landed on Juneteenth, which, if nothing else, makes for a memorable calendar entry. Normally, I handle my time in “the cage” with the stoicism of a runner at mile 18—uncomfortable, yes, but nothing I can’t power through. But this time, I had a hunch things would be different. Not fear, exactly. More like that feeling you get in the last quarter-mile of a race when you know something’s off with your stride. You’re not sure what, but you know.

A few hours later, the results dropped, and—cue the dramatic music—my hunch was right. White Matter Hyperintensity. Left frontal lobe. The start of Small Vessel Disease—a phrase that hovers ominously, hinting at the possibility of dementia down the road, like those balloon ladies at the back of a marathon, always just behind you, no matter how hard you push. But honestly, I wasn’t surprised. My body has been sending up distress flares for months, and I’ve been logging the symptoms like a runner logs miles:

  • Vision doing its own thing
  • Words playing hide-and-seek in my brain
  • Short-term memory that’s, well, short
  • Blood pressure so low it could limbo under a garden hose (88/56, if you’re keeping score)
  • Insomnia that only Trazodone can tame
  • Mood swings that make Boston’s Heartbreak Hill look like a bunny slope
  • Depression and anxiety, the unwelcome running buddies
  • Heart rate dropping to 49 bpm—elite marathoner numbers, but without the medals
  • Dizzy spells and vision blackouts whenever I stand up (or, you know, attempt yoga)
  • 15 pounds lost in 2 months (if only it were from marathon training)
  • Balance so wobbly, I could be running on cobblestones in Rome

It’s been a slow, sneaky build—like overtraining, but without the endorphin highs. At one point, I was convinced I had early-onset Parkinson’s. I talked to my therapist, journaled about it, and notified not one, not two, but four doctors. The collective medical response? Order another MRI. (Doctors, it turns out, are like race marshals: quick to hand you a cup of water, but not so quick to notice you’re limping.)

Yesterday, my neurologist’s PA emailed me: “No new signs of stroke!”—complete with a cheery smiley face. I suppose that’s meant to be reassuring, but when you’re the one living with the symptoms (and the new MRI findings), it feels a bit like being told, “Great job, you finished the race!” when you know you took a wrong turn at mile 10.

So here I am, left to manage the aftermath. I’m the one who can’t remember which kid I’m yelling for, or why there’s pizza on the wall, or how to explain to my husband that the three-year-old’s culinary experiments are not, in fact, a sign of genius. Losing your train of thought all day is exhausting—like being stuck in an endless training cycle with no taper in sight. No finish line, no medal, just more laps.

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? If you already know what the race result will be, is it worth running? I’m not saying I won’t toe the start line. Runners are stubborn like that. But knowing the suffering ahead, you do wonder: Is it worth it?

Maybe that’s the point. We run not because we know the outcome, but because we don’t. Because every mile, every scan, every day is a chance to surprise ourselves. And sometimes, even when the course is tough and the finish line is uncertain, you just keep running from everything—if only to see what’s around the next bend to scare the hell out of you.

Running from The Myth of the School Employee’s Endless Summer

People have this charming idea that if you work at a school, your summer is a three-month hammock nap punctuated only by sunscreen reapplication and the occasional ice cream cone. “Must be nice to get summers off!” they say, with that peculiar blend of envy and disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners and people who actually enjoy running hills.

Let’s set the record straight: I am not a teacher. I am not an administrator. I am, in fact, one of those mysterious school employees who keeps the place running while everyone else is off recharging their batteries. My “summer break” is less “European vacation” and more “please submit your vacation request in triplicate.” The only break I get is the one I schedule myself—and even then, I’m more likely to spend it cleaning up after my family’s daily reenactment of Lord of the Flies.

But here’s the twist: while my colleagues are off, I get to enjoy a school that’s blissfully empty. The pace slows down. The urgent requests evaporate. The phone stops ringing. It’s like the difference between race day and a solo long run: during the year, it’s all adrenaline and chaos, but in the summer, it’s just me, my thoughts, and a spreadsheet that I’m desperately trying to make interesting. (Spoiler: it’s still a spreadsheet.)

Some days, I’m the only soul in the building. And honestly? I love it. There’s a certain meditative joy in moving at your own pace, with no one breathing down your neck or asking if you’ve “got a minute.” You work, you eat lunch, you work some more, and then you go home. It’s the workday equivalent of an easy recovery run—no pressure, no competition, just steady progress and the satisfaction of ticking off the miles (or, in my case, the tasks).

Home, of course, is a different story. Carnage is a good word, and I stand by it. DIY projects in various states of completion, children’s shoes multiplying like rabbits, dirty dishes forming geological strata, and the ever-present frisbee perched on the roof like some sort of suburban gargoyle. But that’s summer at home: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and the sweet reward of snowcones and late bedtimes.

So, I get my quiet miles in during the day—those peaceful, solitary stretches where it’s just me and the hum of the copier—and by 4 p.m., I’m ready to lace up and tackle the wild interval workout that is family life in summer.

Running, working, living—it’s all about finding your pace, embracing the quiet when you can, and knowing that, sooner or later, you’ll be sprinting again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get that frisbee off the roof.

Running from the Last Day of School

Today is the day every child has circled in red on their mental calendar since September: the Last Day of School. It’s also the day every parent greets with a mixture of dread and existential panic. Not because we don’t want to spend time with our delightful offspring (I mean, we love them, right?), but because the thought of keeping them entertained for the next 100 days is the parenting equivalent of running an ultra-marathon with a backpack full of snacks and a hydration pack filled with cold coffee.

Summer vacation, you see, is not for the faint of heart. It requires the strategic planning of a NASA launch, the logistical coordination of a Disney World vacation, and the snack budget of a minor league baseball team. If you haven’t spent March, April, and most of May quietly panicking about camp sign-ups and wondering if you can buy Goldfish crackers in bulk, you’re simply not doing it right.

Let’s talk numbers. The average child will ask for a snack approximately every 47 minutes during the summer months. Multiply that by three children, factor in the “snack inflation” effect (where a snack is never quite enough), and you’ll find yourself at Costco, staring at a pallet of granola bars, wondering if you should just buy two. Camps are another story: they’re expensive, fill up faster than a Taylor Swift concert, and getting both my 9-year-old and 7-year-old into the same camp, at the same time, is a feat of scheduling wizardry that would make even Len Testa proud.

Now, here’s the real twist: I work all summer. My husband, a teacher, gets to stay home with the kids. This means I can plan every minute of their day with color-coded charts, Pinterest-worthy snack carts (parental approval required, because my middle child would subsist on nothing but snacks if left unchecked), and lists of wholesome activities. But, much like planning a perfect marathon route, I have absolutely no control over whether anyone actually follows the plan. I am the race director who sets up the course, only to watch the runners veer off in search of ice cream.

As a kid, I was never a fan of summer. I liked the reliable routine of school, the thrill of learning, and the predictability of lunch at 11:57 a.m. Summer meant my mom would lock us out of the house until lunchtime, and my dad would sign me up for every volleyball camp in the continental United States. I loved volleyball, but as the perennial “new kid,” making friends was about as easy as running a 5K in flip-flops.

My kids, on the other hand, are thrilled. They’re not yet at the age where sleeping until noon is a competitive sport, but TV, video games, water balloons, and swimming are all firmly on the agenda. Meanwhile, I’ll be working, shuttling to baseball every night, and dodging the daily messes that seem to multiply like rabbits in the summer heat.

And honestly? That’s just fine by me. Because if running has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t have to enjoy every mile—sometimes, you just have to keep moving forward, one snack break at a time.

Running from Design

I have big dreams for my home. Not the kind of dreams that involve marble countertops or a kitchen island the size of an aircraft carrier, but the sort that, if achieved, would allow me to walk into my living room and not immediately trip over a pile of shoes, a sticky patch of mystery goo, or a rogue action figure. My interior design style, much like my running pace, varies wildly depending on the day, the weather, and whether or not I’ve had coffee. But I don’t think it’s bad. And besides, the only person who visits with any regularity is my mom, and she’s legally obligated to say nice things.

Recently, my parents’ friends—who, judging by the amount of furniture I’ve inherited, must be living in an empty box by now—offered me a rug. It’s colorful. Very colorful. The kind of colorful that makes you question whether your brown couch (also from said friends) will ever recover from the shock. After two hours of rearranging furniture, which, by the way, is the closest I’ve come to cross-training in months, the rug was down. And, to my surprise, it looked… good. Not “featured in a magazine” good, but “I won’t trip over it in the dark” good.

This minor victory inspired a cascade of home improvement ambitions. I ordered artwork. I mapped out a board and batten wall. I even dusted off the nail gun I bought four months ago—still in its box, like a race medal I haven’t quite earned yet. There are, of course, a few obstacles:

  1. Power Tools: I have never operated anything more complicated than a blender. And that was only because I needed a post-run smoothie.
  2. Blood Thinners: When your blood is basically water, the prospect of wielding a nail gun becomes a high-stakes game of “Will it blend?”
  3. Spousal Support: My husband, bless him, is many things. Handy is not one of them. As my 3-year-old says, “They’re mommy’s tools!” He got the sports gene, not the construction gene.

I know the hardware store will cut boards for me, but the idea of asking for help makes me break out in a cold sweat. I can run a marathon, but apparently, I cannot ask a stranger to cut a piece of wood without fearing I’ll be mistaken for someone making a Pinterest craft gone wrong. (Not today, sir. Not today.)

Why am I doing this? Because, much like running, home improvement is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a slow, steady process that involves planning, perseverance, and the occasional detour through the land of “What was I thinking?” My living room is rarely clean enough to be proud of—three boys see to that—but I want to create a space that makes me feel accomplished, even if the soundtrack is Phineas and Ferb singing about ‘S’winter’ and the floor is a minefield of Legos.

I’m thinking of documenting the process, because if running has taught me anything, it’s that progress is worth recording. Every training run, every new mile, every tiny improvement adds up. So too with home projects: getting the rug, moving the couch, and planning out the board and batten wall is, by my estimation, about 27% of the project. (Give or take. Len Testa would probably have a spreadsheet for this. Who am I kidding? I have a spreadsheet for this!)

We all have to start somewhere. Whether it’s the first mile of a marathon or the first nail in a wall, the important thing is to keep moving forward—preferably without stepping on anything sticky.

Sometimes, what you’re running from is just a living room in desperate need of a makeover. And sometimes, you run right into a home you’re proud of.

Running from the Indestructable Seven-Year-Old

There are certain inevitabilities in life: death, taxes, and the school nurse calling me at least three times a week. It’s become so routine that I half expect her to start our conversations with, “Hi, it’s me again,” as if we’re old friends catching up over coffee rather than discussing my seven-year-old son’s latest misadventure.

The calls always come around lunchtime, which is no coincidence. Recess follows lunch, and my son’s face—blessed with the classic Thompson head, which is, let’s be honest, a bit larger than the industry standard—seems to act as a homing beacon for any airborne object within a fifty-foot radius. If there’s a stray basketball, a rogue frisbee, or a meteorite hurtling toward Earth, you can bet it will make a beeline for his forehead.

Most of the nurses’ calls are about nosebleeds, which we average about five a week at home. The primary culprit? Wrestling that breaks out in my living room every afternoon from 3 to 8 p.m. But nosebleeds are just the beginning. We’ve also had incidents involving mysterious goose eggs, rope collisions, bee stings, and the full spectrum of scraped knees. In short, all the classic “boy things,” as the medical textbooks no doubt describe them.

In a strange way, I’m almost grateful that these incidents happen at school. When he was younger, I used to worry about taking him out in public, fearing that someone might call Child Protective Services after seeing his collection of bruises. But then my babysitter, having witnessed his Thompson head in action, became my unofficial alibi. Now, with the school nurse meticulously documenting every bump and scrape, I have a veritable archive proving that my child is uniquely qualified to injure himself in ways previously thought impossible.

My son is a marvel of perpetual motion. He arrived seven weeks early—clearly in a hurry—and has been moving at top speed ever since. He is, quite literally, the kid who saved me. After losing our little girl and enduring a rough patch in our marriage, I found myself in a dark place. His arrival was a lifeline, pulling me back into the world. This isn’t something he needs to know right now, but it’s why I look at him with a mixture of joy, gratitude, and mild terror every time he launches himself off the couch.

He also seems to run at a constant boil. Teachers frequently report that he rolls up his pant legs in the dead of winter because he’s “too hot.” He eats like a linebacker preparing for the Super Bowl—constantly, enthusiastically, and with no discernible impact on his weight, which has remained unchanged since 2023. I suspect he may be part hummingbird.

He’s one of the reasons I run. I know he’s proud of me, and I want to keep it that way. I work out and eat right not just for myself, but to show him that this is what you do: you keep moving, you take care of yourself, and you try to outrun the flying soccer balls of life.

I can’t wait to see what the future holds for him. I suspect it will involve a lot of movement, a few more nosebleeds, and maybe a Nobel Prize in physics for discovering new ways to collide with inanimate objects. Until then, I’m just over the moon to be his mama—even if it means keeping the school nurse on speed dial.

Running from Survivor

It’s that time of year. Boys volleyball season, with its endless shuttling of knee pads and water bottles, finally came to a close. In theory, this should usher in a period of serene evenings, perhaps spent reading or reacquainting oneself with the concept of “free time.” In practice, of course, it means baseball season, along with the inevitable parade of rainouts, reschedules, and the existential dread of finding a dry pair of socks, in my new pasttime.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing to have a night free from kid activities. Last night was that unicorn. My volleyball banquet was scheduled, but with only nine kids on the team, I knew it would be a brisk affair. Add to that the fact that it was being held at one of our favorite pizza joints, and you’ve got yourself a classic case of parental efficiency: dinner and a show, all in one. As the old saying goes, it’s like killing two birds with one stone—if only to address the surplus of birds and the chronic shortage of stones in modern suburban life.

Now, the true genius—or perhaps the greatest folly—of this particular pizza place is its game room. It’s a room that seems to operate on the same principle as a Vegas casino: bright lights, no clocks, and the faint but persistent hope that you might leave richer than you arrived. My children, who can barely muster the patience to chew their food, will spend approximately three seconds eating and the next ninety minutes in a frenzied search for quarters. They always find them, somehow, and proceed to invest them in the pursuit of prizes destined to become tomorrow’s vacuum fodder.

At one point during the evening, I did what every responsible parent must: I went to check on the boys. To my mild horror—but not, I must stress, my surprise—I discovered Wynn, my three-year-old, perched atop the claw machine. The thing is at least six feet tall, and how he got up there remains one of those mysteries best left to the ages, like Stonehenge or how socks disappear in the laundry. Was I shocked? No. Embarrassed? A little. Mostly, I was just grateful he hadn’t tried to operate the thing from the inside.

This, I should mention, is not a one-off event. I have been blessed—if that’s the word—with three natural-born climbers. Fences, grocery store shelves, the interior of the refrigerator—if it can be scaled, my children have summited it. At this point, I’m barely even scarred, physically or emotionally. I’ve reached a state of parental Zen where I simply accept that gravity is more of a suggestion than a law.

After your third child, you find that your threshold for shock is dramatically reduced. It’s actually quite liberating. Parenting becomes a little like an episode of Survivor: Expect the Unexpected. Everyone is inexplicably covered in sand, sleep is a distant memory, and someone is always searching for an idol—or, in our case, the missing TV remote. There’s constant strategizing, alliances form and dissolve over who gets the last breadstick, and you half-expect Jeff Probst to step out from behind the soda fountain and narrate your every move.

In the end, you’re just trying to outwit, outplay, and outlast—at least until bedtime. And if you can do it with a slice of pizza in hand and only minor embarrassment at your child’s climbing exploits, you’re doing just fine.

So here’s to the end of volleyball, the beginning of baseball, and the eternal quest for a quiet night. May your pizza always be hot, your quarters plentiful, and your children safely on the ground—at least most of the time.