I was telling a friend about my busy days for the next few months, remarking that between all the drop-offs and pick-ups I have written down, there is scarcely a free inch on my calendar page.

She asked "You mean you actually write down what time you have to drop off and pick up your kids?"

Yes. Yes, I do. Except for my kindergartener, because I finally remember when she has to be there, and when I have to get her. Come August, I'll be back to writing her schedule daily as well, because her hours will change, and Wednesdays are shorter, and blah blah blah. Dude, if I didn't write all this crap in one central place, and check it frequently, there's almost a guarantee that I would forget where I was supposed to be or that I actually have three children.

I don't even want to admit how many times I've been a mile down the road from my house and had to turn around to make sure I closed the garage door, or did a quick check in the mirror to make sure all three kids are in the car with me. But it's often. For the record, the door has ALWAYS been closed, and the kids are ALWAYS in the car. I just get the uneasy feeling sometimes that I've forgotten something important.

I'd like to blame it on something, or somebody, but I just have a dingy streak. I was this way my whole life. I remember what meal everyone ate on every family trip, but I can't remember if my kids have swimming lessons at 4 or 4:30. And we go every day. Along about 3:00, the "Hmmm" vibe sets in, and I check the calendar. Aha! 4 o'clock it is. (I'm also not going to mention that I've written the wrong days or times on the calendar for an entire course length, and have badgered receptionists and instructors to explain to me how my child is not on the roster because I have it ON MY CALENDAR, only to be handed a copy of the registration showing my child's class as half-an-hour before I showed up. Or next month.)

But! Enough about me! We're talking about my son, today, and his love of fresh air.

We have swimming lessons for the next three months, every afternoon at 4 o'clock. (And yes, I just glanced up at the calendar.) I bought the kids those one piece UV protectant suits that look like a shorty wetsuit. They don't ride up, and they seem to keep the chill to a minimum. I also think they are really stinking cute. Our swim center has lovely locker rooms with nice showers and dressing areas, but we rarely use them, because we live five minutes away, and I usually bring the kids in their suits and robes. Up until this year, the kids were content to just throw on their robes at the end of the lesson and ride home in their wet suits, so that we could shower at home.

This year, it's been a problem. My oldest wants to shower and change in the locker room like her friends from class. This means carting a change of clothes for both kids along with my youngest in the stroller, who by the end of the lesson is DONE and WANTS OUT. The locker room is always crowded with the senior citizen aqua-aerobics crowd, and my kids are boisterous and and and... basically, I want to do it the easy way.

My oldest grumbles, but allows me to hustle her out to the car. My son, however, does not want to wear his wet suit home. Imagine my surprise the first day when I loaded the stroller into the trunk and rounded the side of the car to buckle kids and found my son sitting buck nekkid in his booster seat.

"Dude, you need to wear clothes! You don't want me to buckle your dingus, do you?"

"I was cold." Apparently wet/cold is bad. Naked/cold is fine.

I forced him to wear his robe home. You would think I would have just thrown some clothes in the car for the next lesson, but no. I clung to my belief that he would give in to my selfish desire to make it easy on myself.

Ha! Bwahahahahahaha!

Day two. I hustled the kids straight from the pool to the car. I took the precaution of strapping my wet suit topped by dry robe wearing son into his seat BEFORE I put the stroller away. I raced to the driver's seat, jumped in, drove the five minutes home, leaped out, and slid open the side door. Out leapt my completely stark-nekkid boy-child, who began to run, flapping his arms and laller laller lallering around the driveway and front yard.

"Ack!" I squeaked in surprise and dismay. Recovering from the initial shock of seeing my son shoot out of the car like a peeled egg launched from a cannon, I began to chase him around the yard, feeling a little like the baker chasing the gingerbread man. It was surreal to say the least. The other two kids cheered him on, and he streaked around our yard, with an occasional hop or twirl. At one point, he paused long enough to shake his rear at me AND WINK over his shoulder before resuming his circuit of the yard, hands and other uh, parts flapping away. After a face off on either side of a large tree trunk, he faked to the left and as he darted right, I managed to capture the Nudito Bandito and haul him into the house, both of us breathless - him from giggling and laller lallering, and me from righteous indignation.

Day three found me packing sweatpants and a tshirt to avoid any further adventures of the Nudito Bandito. And yes, I jotted a reminder to myself about it on the calendar.