My kids have so much energy, it makes me want to cry. Actually, it does make me cry. Often.
I don’t cry well. At least, not like delicate females. I am the most liquified, mucus-y, red-nosed, bleary-eyed crier ever. I never understood it when I’d read a story that described a woman who would weep, and then dab her eyes. Dabbing? Seriously?
With me there is no dabbing. Honking, hiccupping, and snorting, yes. Dabbing, not so much. When I cry, it requires a half a box of tissues, minimum, to mop up the flood. We’re not just talking tears. Ya got yer snot and your saliva to deal with, too. And probably sweat.
But this post isn’t about me and my secretions.
My Varmint and Critter. Their boundless energy. To say they are full of it is the understatement of the century, second only to the statement ‘Saddam Hussein had issues’. We’re talking a lot of zip. Pluck. Zest. Verve. Vigor. Pizzazz.
Are you pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down?
To illustrate, take Critter a few days ago. My Captain had a load of gravel delivered for the construction project. He had not used quite all of it up yet, and there was a slight mound of it left in the driveway. Critter got home from school, saw that some of the pile was still there, made a bee-line for it and in the space of less than a minute:
hurled himself on it, proceeded to run circles around it, ran sprints up the incline, sideways, down at full speed, jumped, leaped and galavanted all over it.
I haven’t galavanted for years. Lord I miss that.
I asked him what he was doing and he said, “What do you mean?” in a pitying tone that really meant, “Why do you ask such stupid questions, Mother?”
I turned around, went back into the house mumbling, took some Motrin and One-A-Day Energy Vitamins, and laid down for a nap.