Babe in Boyland

The boys are in a shoot-out at the foosball table. They are watching the clock tick down on my computer, walking over every ten seconds to check the time. The winning shot has been made; the other team wanders over to the couch, upset by his loss.

A few minutes earlier, one of the boys tells me of a plan he has hatched.

"One day," he says wistfully, "I'm going to get a treadmill and put Henry on it so he can come flying to me."

I explain what an incredibly bad idea this is.

I realize several boys need their nails clipped. I corner a boy in the kitchen and start to trim.

"Augie," I say, bent over his dirt-encrusted tines, "You're long overdue for this."

"Hey," he cries, "I'm not a doofus!"

We clear up that misunderstanding. The foosball competition continues (Round 2) and one of the boys asks me if I had to choose an arm to have amputated which one would it be.

It's 10 o'clock in the morning. Bring it on, day.