After lunch, such as it was, being a catch-as-you-can meal of bread and butter, or blueberry muffin, or bagel, I was hounded by the screaming hordes that comprise my two adorable, well-behaved children to such an extent that I fled upstairs with my book, and told B to take them away and put them in front of the TV, if he had to, to keep them off me.
He's taken them out to find a geocache now, a nice activity that keeps the three of them occupied and at least one of them interested for an hour or so. (It's like a treasure hunt using a GPS.) I greatly appreciate the peace and quiet and have no intention of picking up any of the mess, though I did put away some laundry.
Sometimes, though, I do wish that children didn't have to be constantly entertained so. I long for the day when they will just curl up with a good book and let me do the same. I look at them leaping around the house, from sofa to armchair like mountain gazelles who embrace the possibility of concussion (again) with every bound - "But Mummy, I didn't fall"; ergo, I never will - and with a sinking heart I know that someone has to take them at least outside, if not actually Out to a place where they can do that sort of thing in the fresh air and over a nice covering of soft woodchips.
Where do they get all their damn energy? (From their father, of course, who got up at 6am to run sixteen miles today.)