On Father's Day, for a moment, I wonder is my husband actually a homicidal maniac...

Okay, so I didn't so much really wonder that, but I did nearly enter heart failure when the door bell rang, and Ethan got up and looked out the door and said "Mom, it's the police"

Right before that, we were all sitting on my bed, except Daddy, who was unwinding alone and in peace on Father's Day, and I was cutting nails and cleaning ears in preparation to go out for Father's Day brunch. The oldest was still sleeping, and cuts her own nails and cleans her own ears.

After the mother's day debacle, when I had to coach soccer right before we went with my family out for mother's day dinner, and so my husband had to dress the kids, and Ethan arrived in Aidan's pants ( size 7slim, when he is size 10 slim), and Tasha was in a sleeveless dress with no sweater in 50 degree weather, and Isabelle had on mary janes without socks, which inevitably gave her a foot blister, and I had to forbid all of them from getting in the buffet line because they all looked ridiculous, I wanted to make sure that they looked spiffy so that my family would believe that they actually have clothes that fit them, and that they once in a while enter the world looking decent.

Anyway, when Ethan said the police were at the door, my heart jumped into my throat. I mean why do the police go to people's houses? Not for good reasons. My real first thought was that someone in my extended was dead on the side of the road and the police were at my door, because somehow, I was determined to be the next of kin.

My Dad and brother are both runners, and often run in our neighborhood. I'm thinking about Tim Russert anyway, and now the most plausible reason for the police being there is that my Dad has had a heart attack on the side of the road.

I make my husband answer the door because a) I'm too chicken, and b) it's 11:30 a.m. and I'm still in my nightgown- and the whole plan is for us to look decent to society today.

Within seconds of the door opening, I hear my husband chuckling, so I know everything must be ok. I peek out of the bedroom door, and my husband asks if any of the kids were playing with the phone.

Now, I feel like a fool, because, of course, I was letting Tasha, the baby, play with the phone on the floor while cutting the other kids nails. She quickly knocked it off the hook, and I didn't bother to hang it back up because I thought better for her to play with it off the hook than on. This would have been a great plan had before she knocked it off the hook, she hadn't dialed 911.

Unfortunately, since she did first dial 911 before knocking the phone off the hook, and so the police were trying and trying to call us back to see if, in fact, we had emergency. Since they could not get through to us, they had to send someone out.

Aidan and Ethan were wrestling earlier that morning and I had just explained to them how they could get in big trouble if they hurt one another. Aidan, who is only six, thought the police had come for him since he hit his brother. He curled up in a cocoon in my bed and sobbed uncontrollably. All of the other kids, who went out and said hi to the police officer tried to coax him out, telling him the police officer was not here for him, but he was having nothing of it. If anything good comes of this, MAYBE, he'll think next time before he punches his brother, but I doubt it.

After profusely apologizing, we did manage to get ready for brunch and we all looked presentable.

If ever I have my doubts about writing or blogging, I just look and my life and know that its absurdity HAS to have some meaning- otherwise, most days would just seem like a cruel, cruel joke.