My youngest just rounded the corner on my deck at full speed, big cheeks bouncing, hopping on one leg. My ears are plugged up (more on that in a minute) but when she dropped to her knees and shot head-first through the doggie door, I clearly heard her laller laller lallering. Oh! I just noticed she's sporting a hearty display of butt-crack, too. Nice.

Vacation is over, my friends. That feeling of relaxation and fuzzy warm lovin' is a vague memory.

You know when you've got your A game on, and things are clicking, and you are saying and doing all the right things, all the time?

Well, I've got my H game on. In fact, this is not even my sport. I'm standing here, pondering the basket hovering far above my head and wondering why I'm wearing shoulder pads and cleats.

We got back, basked in the glory for a day, did some laundry and made some big promises about the way things will run around here and then I got laid out by a nasty cold. Or maybe allergies. I'm not entirely sure.

Due to my extremely sore throat, my skull full of green rubber cement and my utter lack of Easter candy, I'm rather unpleasant. I've nearly lost my fool voice, which seriously puts a damper on my parenting style. It's hard to rant and rave when you sound like a squeaky toy worked over by a German Sheppard. I've been resorting to wild mime moves with the occasional hoarse "No!" thrown in.

Maybe I should switch sports again and go for baseball. I believe my morning diatribe meant to get the kids shoes and socks on actually instructed them to lay down a bunt on the third base line and then slide headfirst into second. Also, I may have called them out on strikes. Not sure, but the tantrums and reactions were very similar to a disgruntled batter.

I'm off to do a Dimetap shooter and then operate heavy machinery. Woooo!