After spending the day out in the hot sun with my children, I’ve decided there is nothing like being five. When you’re five, you can slink off a job site whenever you want. Then you can wander back in hours later and feel no guilt for not helping. Every dirt clod and rock you can lift must be thrown. And assume all punishment for such throwing should be diverted with an “I forgot,” though you’ve done it at least fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. (I’ll be cursed for it but this tactic works on me almost every time, and he gets off with a warning—again. It must be the cute smile he gives me along with it.)
Anything stick-like becomes a sword, and must be whacked on every surface, even siblings. Unfortunately for the five-year-old, siblings aren’t as easily placated as parents with “I forgot” excuses. No worries, this leads into the playful past-time of merry ol’ chase around the house, and ends with cuddling next to mommy so she’ll intervene on behalf of said five-year-old. (Yep, this works too.) What can I say? He’s five, and I’m a sucker. Good thing I’m not nearly as bamboozled when they get older.