Running for My Life

I've always used the phrase, "running after my children" figuratively. Yes, they have always kept me very busy, but not at the frenzied, frenetic pace that comes to mind when using the word "run."

Until now.

Child number 4, Boy of Boys, Messer of Messes, Destructor of All Things Clean and Hallowed, has changed my use of the word "run" from a funny little euphemism to a full-blown reality.

Indeed, I find myself running indoors much more often than would befit a woman of my age. Running to make sure he isn't playing in the toilet...again. Running to pull him down off of the kitchen table for the eleventh time in as many minutes. Running when I hear the words, "Mommy, he's getting in the [insert place where babies shouldn't be] again!" Running to the office to find him on top of the desk, kneeling on (and incidentally breaking) the keyboard.

And, most recently, running to the pantry where he was helping himself to a pre-bedtime snack...

("Um, what? You're the one that keeps the cereal where I can reach it.")

And again to the bathroom where he had insinuated himself, at lightning speed, back into the bathtub that I had just gotten him out of.

("Whatever, lady. Just because you think I'm done in the bathtub doesn't mean I really am.")

Incidentally, even though he's wearing the same thing, these two instances actually happened on different nights.

Maybe something is wrong with the pajamas.

Or maybe he's just crazy.

My bet is on the second of the two.