My Life With Stuntmen

As I write this, I'm dodging machine gun fire. My sons are chasing each other with fake guns through my office, which is supposed to be off limits. This being the first day of a weeklong Thanksgiving break, though, means rules are held more loosely, especially when it's RAINING.
My 5-year-old is proud of his newly discovered machine gun sound effect, the one you make with your top teeth against your bottom lip. I cringe each time I hear my wedding china dinging together as the floor under the china cabinet bounces under the footsteps of the invasion. Whichever mom was the first to say, "It sounds like a herd of elephants running through here," really pegged it.
The most flinchworthy aspect of living with three boys is that they can't take a straight path anywhere. Nothing slows them down on their trek through the house, through the yard, the mall, the car. One of my 12-year-olds must have an ongoing wager with himself that he can step on as many pieces of furniture as possible on his way from the den to the kitchen. No matter if it means climbing, jumping, rolling over or under something. He'll take that path. On a recent hike around Radnor Lake, I'd swear he walked twice as far as the rest of us, what with all the shimmying up trees, clambering over rocks and slipping through fences.
To Owen, every surface is for sitting, except chairs. He also thinks his brothers are trampolines, and every commercial break, he pounces on one of them like a puppy.
Boys are the reason for signs that say, "Please stay on the marked trail."
Because it would never occur to them to do that on their own.