This Thursday, U.S. News & World Report, the American Academy of Pediatrics, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, and March of Dimes are hosting a live Twitter chat about premature births in the United States.

Experts are prepared to discuss the latest research and innovations in therapy. They will cover prevention and treatment; complications; what to expect in the hospital and how to care for your baby when he or she goes home.

For an overview of the chat’s focus, check out the latest @USNewsHealth article.

Date: Thursday, May 23
Time: 11 a.m. to 12 p.m. PT
Hashtag: #Preemie
Moderator: @USNewsHealth
Experts: @AmerAcadPeds, @ChildrensPhila and @marchofdimes

Are there any questions you’re interested in? I would be happy to send them in advance, as I will also be participating in the chat. (And please join in as well if you’re one of the tweeter types yourself.)

As we rapidly round the corner to age 3 for our own favorite preemie superheroes, I am thrilled that prematurity continues to get the attention it deserves – because I am keenly aware not everyone is as lucky as we have been.

Spring has arrived. Corporate conferences abound. And work travel is in the air (pun totally intended).

Baseball games have good people watching. Vegas has better. But the airport? That one can’t be beat.

What characters have you seen that need to be added?

Tech Geek
This character is loaded down with all the latest gizmos and gadgets. They’re slumped up against a wall as they’ve commandeered the lone electrical outlet for charging nirvana. (Although there is now apparently such a thing as solar panels for your gear-hauling backpack). You’ll never see the whites of their eyes because they’ll never look up from a digital screen for longer than it takes to switch to a different tech toy. Look for a characteristically hipsterish outfit to complete the picture.

Fashionista
Looking down on the hipster Tech Geek, our Fashionista arrives for flights dressed for comfort. You will find her clad in the finest couture of name brand sweats. With perfectly applied makeup, nary a hair out of place (and emergency touch-up tools stowed in a giant designer handbag), she’ll have sweats, declaring her Juicy tushy, tucked tightly into her Ugg boots (protecting her from the recirculating 75 degree climate controlled air.) A stylistically shredded Flashdance stripper sweatshirt completes the ensemble.

Old Fashioned I Remember When Everyone Got All Dressed Up To Travel Snob
Inevitably you’ll run into the polar opposite of the Fashionista. An elder of the generations, this man or woman remembers “the good old days.” Back when traveling was part of the excitement. And everyone got dressed in their Sunday best. (Even on Mondays.) Respect. AND GET OFF MY TARMAC!

Kid In Jammies On A Leash
Sometimes it’s too much to even get dressed. Inevitably during your travel adventures you will encounter a bewildered looking Little Rascal-like child stuffed into the cotton leggings and long-sleeve nightly uniform of young children everywhere. This character’s parents are acutely aware of little Damien’s propensity to scamper off. Which is why they’ve chosen to pluck him from his bed, and adorn their precious with a stuffed monkey. But that stuffed tail isn’t fooling anyone – it’s a leash. Look for Kid In Jammies On A Leash being walked up and down the terminal hallways in a last ditch effort to burn energy.

Mom Seriously Reconsidering Her Decision To Travel With Children
Air travel is a giant pain in the tushy. Add a few unwieldy small people to the mix and this character is sure to arrive equipped with Extra Strength Tylenol and a double shot espresso for a failed effort to vanquish the bags under her eyes. Mom can be found in the check-in line – alternatively snapping at her kids to stop snapping the retracting line organizer ropey-thing at fellow passengers and screaming “For the love of my sanity DO NOT LICK THE LUGGAGE CART!” Don’t judge. (Even if she’s wearing mom jeans). Proffer a sympathetic smile and move along.

Kid Sports Team
While Mom may regret her decision to travel with wee ones, chaperones shepherding a group of smug travel-team teenagers can be found huddled in the bar. You can spot Kids Sports Team by the seven metric tons of baggage they’re schlepping. They’ll all be in matching sloppy oversize sweatshirts, but fear not – you’ll hear them coming about three terminals before they arrive in yours. Beware the overwhelming stench of sweaty sports gear and AXE body spray (applied far too liberally) if it’s the return flight.

Cougar Lady
Over in the bar along with the Kid Sports Team chaperones is Cougar Lady. She’s sitting alone, drinking her third (or fifth if her flight’s delayed) Merlot, while flirting it up with the bartender. (Watch out male chaperones.) She’ll tell you her life story – well, actually she’s telling her life story, you may just be within earshot. Fashionista would do well to note what the future holds.

Business Man
Think George Clooney from “In The Air.” This character is a rare sight. Due to the amount of frequent flyer miles amassed, Business Man awaits his expected upgrade in the “We’re Better Than You” Admiral’s Club/Lounge. (Common travelers are not allowed here. This is like the Teachers Lounge from school days.) You’re best chance to spot Business Man is finding him impatiently waiting in the security screening line. He’ll be in a business suit and carrying nothing more than an important-looking leather briefcase.

Person Who’s Clearly Never Traveled Before
Alas, despite all his importance and allure to Cougar Lady, Business Man is usually stuck behind Person Who’s Clearly Never Traveled Before in the security screening line.
TSA Agent: Please remove your jacket, shoes, belt and anything in your pockets.
Person: I have to take off my shoes?
TSA Agent: Please remove your jacket, shoes, belt and anything in your pockets.
Person: <beep beep beep> You mean my belt can’t go through the metal detector?
TSA Agent: Take off your belt. Do you have anything in your pockets?
Person: <looks confused> Puts change in bin. <beep beep beep> Oh, that’s just my phone in my pocket. Oh wait – are you talking about the pumpkin carving kit I have in my luggage? Or the six bottles of water I’m bringing in case I get thirsty. What do you mean I have to take off my belt?

Angry At TSA Guy
To be fair, it’s no wonder Angry is cranky. But there’s no mistaking this character – the cherry red bomb about to blow because someone dared ask for his identification papers. (Hmm, perhaps that was a poor choice of language.) Angry will make certain you know he is an American citizen and he knows his rights. There will be no suspension of disbelief regarding these security theatre shenanigans! He’ll huff and he’ll puff and he’ll blow your tolerance of obnoxious people right down. Because a 7 a.m. political rant is just what you need to kick off a full day of travel.

BONUS CHARACTER: You.
You’re the one simply trying to catch your flight and not have to deal with the “travel” part of traveling. Because that part sucks. Or, hypothetically speaking of course, you’re the girl who tries to get through security with a Costco card and then always gets searched by TSA much to the amusement of her coworkers – and then blogs about it.

• Exhibit A
• Exhibit B
• Exhibit C

I opened the green binder to sign the boys out of school. And there was the ominous folded sheet paper.

The Xeroxed Incident/Accident report. With “Incident” prominently circled. Oh goodie.

Bubbly blue handwriting scrawled across the faded purple/black lines:

The kids were playing outside. One of them was lying on the grass. Destroy ran up and kicked his friend in the face. He had a time-out and then had to sit with me during outside time. I had talked to him earlier after he kicked a friend in the stomach.

I grumbled and signed acknowledgement.

And stalked down to the sandbox to retrieve my little miscreant.

“Mommeeee!” squealed the little ones as they sprinted toward me.

“I didn’t get in trouble,” noted a rather precocious Search.

“Destroy,” I began. “Did you kick your friend?”

His little head dropped. “Mmmhmmm,” he mumbled.

“Why?”

“Because…” he stuttered. “Because I did it.”

“You know better than that,” I reprimanded. “Are you supposed to kick your friends?”

“No! We no kick friends,” proclaimed Search proudly.

“Why did you kick your friend?” I asked again.

“NOOO!” wailed Destroy, flinging himself to the floor. “He say I Search. I not a Search. I Destroy.”

(At least we know the twins are secure in their identities.)

At this point, Destroy clammed up and decided to embrace his right to remain silent.

“Bonnie and AJ,” said Search tattled.

Excellent. Kick the principal’s son. Because *that* won’t get you kicked out of school. (Destroy is going to get in trouble later in life – he’s so going to be the “Dude! I dare you” guy that takes all the dares.)

With that parental experience conquered it was time to move on to the next crisis of the afternoon. (And all before we reached the exit gate.)

Search realized his Hot Wheels sticker (a well-earned reward from the doctor for not having pneumonia) was no longer affixed to his shirt.

“Well what happened to it?”

“The chickens ate it,” he replied.

It was supposed to be a footloose, fun and fancy-free girl’s weekend on the beach. We’d been planning our getaway for almost six months. Because when you’re a mom, these things take time to organize.

It was supposed to be. It was not.

There were six of us. All mamas. Ten kids (seven boys, three girls – all under the age of five) remained back home.

Packed in the car were bottles of wine, champagne and orange juice, margarita ingredients. Graham crackers, Hershey bars and marshmallows for s’mores in the firepit were at the ready. Swimsuits were stowed away for late nights in the hot tub.

I had spent the week at a conference for work in fabulous Las Vegas. Which mean that I was exhausted and had been ready to simply relax and hang out with my girls since I first set foot on my flight to Vegas. (Tricia insight: I don’t do well in large crowds where I need to be constantly “on.” Obvious for a former theatre major right?)

We arrived to our ocean-front destination with waves crashing against the shore, while the sun set a glowing backdrop for our picturesque party scene.

Clad in the mommy cliché of yoga pants and knotted hair ties, we were comfortable in our uniform. (I am not making this up.) One and a half margaritas later, I got a text.

“Search has a fever of 102. Where’s the Tylenol?”

The muppets were home with GrammaJ, so I knew they were in good hands. (Jon was at work.) But still!

Jon had responded to my mother, “Don’t tell Tricia.” He was concerned it would ruin my weekend. But alas, Jon didn’t know where the Tylenol was. Because I was the last one to hide it organize all the cupboards and put it away in its new home.

So Tricia was told. It didn’t go well.

The problem was that the fever seemed to have come out of nowhere. Search suddenly wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t talk and was lethargically moping on the couch. This is exceedingly out of character for my little man. (In hindsight, this may have been a ploy for more GrammaJ time.)

He won’t act sick. When he had pneumonia last year, we only discovered it because his brother, Destroy, clearly indicated he was ill. Typically, Search is stoic. “Just give me my trucks. I need to play.”

“Is there wheezing? Please keep me posted,” I texted back before abandoning my adult beverage and immediately calling home.

Wheezing scares me. It means an issue with their little lungs. I know they’re almost three. And they’ve graduated from high risk; so theoretically, they’re just typical tiny germ mongers now. So the good news? We can’t call the doctor in a panic and use the preemie card. The bad news? We can’t call the doctor in a panic and use the preemie card.

I don’t typically handle this time of year well. It’s so close to the epic fail that was their birth. (Again, yes I know they’re almost three. Logic does not factor into my thought processes in terms of sick kids.) Combined with the exhaustion of already having been gone all week, the sudden fever spike sent me into a spiral.

In the midst of a mommy breakdown, I decided to cut my weekend short and go home. I knew he was in good hands. I knew he’d be okay. The question became would *I* be okay.

Because I was chillin’ in the company of my mommy friends, they simply hugged me, reminded me that they were sure my little dude would be fine, but that I’d feel better by going home. Also, they’d drink my share of the margaritas and wine.

The view I left behind.

My mom said she knew Jon didn’t want me to give up my weekend. But she would have done the exact same thing in such a situation.

So I went home and called the doctor in a panic after the fever continued past 72 hours.

Search does not have p-neumonia. He has a cold. (But he sounded REALLY bad. Reminiscent of a past trip to the ER with Destroy, only to be told he had the sniffles.)

Doctor’s orders? Cuddles.

If only I could get him to sit still…

P.S. I’m gonna need a girls night out do-over.

I like baseball. This may be genetic.

The day the muppets were born, my mom sent me a note that she knew the boys would okay. Because they were born on the 28 – the number of former Dodger Wes Parker.

In second grade I won “Most Likely to Know Everything About Baseball” at Sunny Skies Summer Day Camp. In fourth grade, I was seated next to the Away bullpen at Dodger Stadium when a NY Mets relief pitcher asked me to move so he could talk to his girlfriend. I was over the moon.

This past week, I traveled to Vegas for work. Mere hours after discussing the ridiculousness of mustaches with a colleague, I discovered that Rollie Fingers was in attendance. When an appropriate moment arose, I darted off across the show floor in search of an audience with the Hall of Famer.

I also successfully secured two autographed photos for the next generation of A’s fans.

Because why not?

Aunt J is a big fan. And she takes her dedication seriously. We’ve descended upon a legendary manager simply trying to have a magical evening with his granddaughter. We’ve chased an iconic broadcaster through a supermarket.

Back in the day, player’s cars weren’t locked away. Baseball icons were admired, but they were people too. There for the stalking! All one needed to do was hang around the parking lot until the players emerged.

One may think a description such as this means I’m about to categorize Aunt J as a Jersey Chaser. But that totally does not apply when you’re under the age of 10. Then you’re just adorable.

Also, if you’re Steve Garvey – and you’re license is GARV6 – then that’s kinda on you.

(And really real estate escrow transactions are public domain, so if one happens to find Don Sutton’s address and go to check it out only to see a garage across the cul-de-sac with GARV6 parked in it – well then is it any surprise at all when a smitten 10-year-old trick-or-treats at the newly discovered house?)

I was initially shocked to find Fingers sitting alone, and looking slightly bored. Although, in retrospect, a tech geek networking nirvana isn’t often where one expects to see a 70s sports star.

The next day I discovered baseball hit leader Pete Rose shilling autographs in a nearby entertainment art gallery (approximately three stores down from the sports art gallery – no Charlie Hustle was not hustling in the SPORTS gallery).

The irony of where Rose was selling scribbles of his name was not lost on me.

To be honest, I feel sorry for the guy. Because how the mighty may fall. I mean, not sorry enough to buy over-priced memorabilia for him to sign…but I did feel bad.

But being Vegas, there’s something for everyone. So after a day of demos I headed to the hotel Sports Book to watch a game. There were crazy people around. Futzing and fidgeting with sports apps and watching all the games at once. I’d make fun of them here if the aforementioned actions didn’t totally make sense to me. (No, I didn’t bet on any of the games.)

The nerd show went well. Work was exhausting. But man, the people watching in Sin City cannot be beat.

I write a monthly column over at AlliOSNews. It’s a techie site – extolling all the goodies and gunpowder on the Apple OS. (SHINY TOY!) I’m TechMom. And these are my stories on how technology is really used. This is what you must deal with as I am a Silicon Valley nerd by day.

(I’m well aware it’s Friday. I was traveling this week – at an honest-to-goodness TechNerd Conference. If you want TechMom Tuesday on Tuesdays, head on over to AlliOSNews for all things Apple. TechMom Tuesday is typically published the first Tuesday of every month. I reserve the right to rant more or less as the technical goings-on, well…go on.)

“Mommy? Can I play Jake on the iPad?”

I prefer the iPad to the television. There really are some very nice learning apps for TechTots, such as Wheels on the Bus and Jake’s Neverland Pirate School, based off the Disney Jr. show (YOHO!). The games are interactive and less likely to drive TechMom nutty.

But even as much excitement as the apps provide, the allure of pushing buttons is often much greater.

The majority of our iDevice time is usually spent saying, “Good job matey! You found the monkey and earned a gold dubloon. No, don’t push that button. No! <sigh> Would you like me to start the game over? Absolutely not. That’s Mommy’s app. Stop pushing that button or I’m taking the iPad away.”

With iOS 6, Apple introduced Kid Mode – ability to lock a device into an app. And the angels sang.

Head to the “Settings” app and choose “General.” Scroll down and select and tap on “Accessibility.”

Under the “Learning” subsection, click “Guided Access.”

Toggle the switch to “ON.” Tap “Set Passcode” and (this will shock you) set a passcode. (This is the secret access you’ll use to escape out of Guided Access mode.

You can also decide if you prefer to “Enable Screen Sleep.” I highly recommend turning it “ON,” because this will help sustain battery life but making your iDevice go dark if it’s left inactive for a period of time.

You are now all set to provide hours of entertainment IN A SINGLE APPLICATION to a TechTot. Feel free to commence blinking without fear that the wee one has navigated to your Mail and managed to delete all.

Now that Guided Access is configured, you can use it to lock the iOS device into any app you want.

Launch your desired app and triple-click the Home button to summon the gods of Accessibility.

Set the Guided Access rules by deciding if you’ll allow touch or motion (flipping from portrait to landscape). I always turn off Motion to prevent freakouts due to an unexpected screen flip.

Click “Start.”

Second star to the right and straight on ‘till morning. You’re in Neverland for the long-haul mateys!

Sooner or later, you’ll feel the need to escape. Which means you’re going to want out of Guided Access.

Triple-click the Home button again and enter your chosen passcode. This time click “End” when the Accessibility menu appears.

Warning: Although it’s never happened to me, I have heard rumors of a bug that causes third-party apps to get stuck, rendering your escape route unescapable. If the bug has not yet been addressed and you find yourself in the unfortunate loop of “Say the pirate passcode!” force a reboot by holding Home and Power buttons together for 15 seconds.

You’re probably at the mall.

For I have seen the Gates of Hell. And they bear the sign, “Valley Fair.”

Whoever coined the phrase “If you’re going through hell, keep on going…” was obviously at the mall when inspiration hit.

Our mission: to acquire solid color t-shirts for tomorrow’s preschool Open House recital and a baseball glove for Destroy (because Scout ate go-round one, bringing his ball glove count to three.)

To begin with, a trip to the mall with twins is rather akin to an adventure abroad. You may try and fit in with the locals milling about, but you still stick out like a sore thumb. People stare. But really, you’re there to see several specific sites. And the jet-lag like exhaustion from pushing the double stroller with two kids who have no interest in remaining in said stroller makes you not care that the currency exchange rate is twice the dollar because you need twice the products.

“I want a cookie,” said Destroy.

We walked past the teeny-bopper stores. Dark enclosures advertising clothing with larger-than-life photoshopped naked people. Stores that peddle their wares by pumping knockout drugs masquerading as intense perfume and thumping loud bad base “music.”

As the contaminated stuffy re-circulated air closed in around us, we walked past the hoity toity “high-end” section, where fashion can best be described as in its impressionistic phase. (Seriously? Louis Vuitton matching neck pillows for your car headrest?)

This look has been done before. It did not work then. Also. All of you in the high-waisted short shorts. No. Just no.

We found the childrens section of Hades. Swarths of rugrats were screaming and spreading germs around the play area. You’d think I’d be more comfortable here – fellow parents. But no.

Clueless people abound. Stroller obstacles block the path. Detours end in flat-tires for the people stopping short in front of you. And seriously cranky salespeople who irritated chastise you for trying to swipe your credit card too soon. “No. Not yet. <sigh> You have to wait. <sigh> Ok. Nnooww you can…”

Thinking happy thoughts of a Purell bath and sanitized bubble, we pressed forward.

Did you know solid color t-shirts for tots do not exist? (I am aware I could likely order online. I didn’t. Concert is tomorrow.)

There was nary a solid tee to be found. Not even an undershirt in their size. Apparently the impressionistic fashion-designer-powers-that-be made a unanimous decision that all children’s t-shirts be adorned with a character, design or cutesy saying.

Tiny Tot T’s. The world’s original meme.

Fine. Solid polos it is.

“I want a cookie,” said Search.

Sweaty, thirsty, hungry and cranky, we were more than ready to return home. But we were on the wrong floor. And elevators at the mall are a rare, hidden, and unadorned “luxury.”

Ladies and gentlemen. Let me impart some advice.

Reasons to take the elevator:

• You are disabled.
• You are carrying something large and unwieldy.
• You are wheeling a stroller.

Reasons not to take the elevator:

• You are too tired to take the stairs.
• Your shoes are too tall to navigate levels (yes, I heard a women complaining about this).
• The dog you are walking on a leash is afraid of the escalator.

Which brings me to another point. Let’s note the “stairs” at the mall are escalators. They move for you.

After waiting in line for our turn, we made it to the parking garage. So close!

But we had one more level to go. The elevator in the parking garage was broken. Again. You know that scene in your head? Of me awkwardly lugging the stroller up a flight of stairs, dragging our bounty of (solid color) shirts and baseball gloves up the stairs while cajoling two little ones just discovering their ability to assert independence to go along with this plan?

That.

I want a cookie.

“Get out before the devil even knows you’re there.” (If you can find the exit, that is. They hide them.)

But don’t forget to get the cookies first.

You know you’ve seen them all. Any additions?

Bleacher Creature
By far the most common character, Bleacher Creatures are relegated to – you guessed it – the bleachers. They’ll be a well-known fixture of team spirit with signs, drums, and secret dance moves for specific players. They encourage and embrace new Creatures; but for the love of a freshly mowed field, don’t approach unless you’re a diehard yourself.

Business Guy
This guy (may also come in gal form) is there to be SEEN. They may or may not have any clue as to what’s occurring on the field below. Even if a fan, they’re not watching the game. They’re noshing on gourmet fare and foreign beers up in a suite. The slightly bemused casually dressed person Business Guy is glommed onto can be assumed to be a potential or prospective customer.

Drunk Moron
This 
character thinks nothing of downing as many $8 beers as possible. Plus one. Because who needs to remember a game when there’s beer! YEAH BRAH! Watch your feet – the Drunk Moron is often intoxicated enough to pee at your feet. He’s also hitting on every female in site (albeit with special attention to the beer vendors).

Drunk Woo Girl
She is the female version of the Drunk Moron. But they’re not often seen together. Drunk Woo Girl has had approximately three beers and one pretzel. (Omigawd – carbs!) You can find her draped over barriers screaming “WOOOOO” in no particular direction and no particular moment in the game. She has no firm team allegiance, just a fine appreciation for those wearing baseball pants.

Jersey Chaser
This character will squeal over a Rookie A-ball player batting .143. Jersey Chaser can be found at a major league ballpark wearing a pastel t-shirt version of the team’s colors – with PINK emblazoned across her chest, giggling and with a beer. These girls typically come in pairs. Unlike Drunk Woo Girl’s appreciation for the baseball pants, Jersey Chaser simply wants in them.

Lobster
This character does not believe in sunscreen. Lobster can be found wearing jorts and a tucked-in wife beater. On hot game days, he is bright red with second-degree burns caused by the sun and reflection off plastic stadium seats. On cold game nights Lobster will be wearing the same outfit. But more reminiscent of a pre-cooked blue lobster as their body tries to pull heat from the exterior sunburn.

Long-time Fan
Wrinkled and crinkled, I have my suspicions that Long-time Fan was a Lobster in their youth. This character has attended every home game since their team moved into the stadium. steadfastly keeping score the old-fashioned way. You can notice Long-time Fan by the memorabilia adorning their person, topped with a hat marked with a pin to commemorate every playoff appearance. Fiercely loyal to their team and season tickets, Long-time fan likely has their actual seats from a ballpark renovation in their living room – for away games of course.

Loudmouth
This character believes it is his personal mission to bestow the energy to perform upon the players, while distracting the opponents. With amped vocal cords tuned to 11 (because that is one more than the din of stadium 10), Loudmouth’s vocabulary consists primarily of “THAT’S RIGHT [player name]! GOOD EYE” “YOU SUCK. YOU’RE A BUM!” and “GOOD GAME GUYS – HEY UMP YOU SHOULD TRY WATCHING IT!”

Opponent Fan
The most obvious character, Opponent Fan will be clad in the home team’s rival paraphernalia. They can be found wandering the stadium bleating about their superiority, sometimes sincerely concerned for the well being of humanity in that not everyone supports their team. They are most noticeable when their team is outperforming the home team. (When Opponent Fan combines with Drunk Moron, they are often seen in the company of law enforcement.)

Star Struck Little Leaguer
The cutest of the characters – this person is typically between the ages of 8-10. They’ll be in uniform, likely a t-shirt with a team name like “LEGAL BEAGLES” silkscreened across the back. With a hat slightly too large and knocked askew, the Star Struck Little Leaguer can be found precariously perching over the dugout wall clutching a ball and Sharpie in one hand because they refuse to take their glove off the other. Their attention can only be diverted by the Cotton Candy vendor. And with that much sugar, all bets are off.

You know that scene at the end of Jerry Maguire – where the little boy hurls the baseball over the fence?

Yeah. That’s my kid. Except substitute shoe and roof for the ball and fence.

Search came running toward me when I arrived at preschool pickup.

“Destroy threw the show. On the roof!”

What?

“Your boys,” sighed their teacher, as she came in to explain the latest incident report.

Another teacher had just chastised Bonnie for taking off her shoes. (Apparently disdain for shoes is a thing in this class. As is throwing them.)

She had momentarily turned her attention to the rugby scrum dogpile occurring behind her. (Unsurprisingly involving Destroy’s partner in crime, Search.)

Suddenly there was a shout. “SHOE!!!” yelled Bonnie.

“Shoe?” inquired Miss M, suspiciously eying Destroy because when trouble abounds, he’s usually involved.

Following Bonnie’s point, all eyes raised skyward, including the mischievous glee and delight glinting from Destroy. Precariously perched atop the school roof, was a pink shoe.

Seriously? The roof?

“Soo…” I started, trying to compose myself from fits of laughter before chastising the outfielder. “Um, do we owe Bonnie a new pair of shoes?”

“Mr. Randy go on the roof, too!” explained Search, who was clearly enjoying his role as the color commentator. “Destroy throw Bonnie’s shoe. On the roof.” (Translation: Facilities was able to retrieve the wayward sneaker and I am a good boy and did not do what  my brother did.)

“We throw baseballs. And ONLY balls,” I chastised. “Do you want to play baseball?”

We practiced.

(Because let’s face it, getting the shoe to the roof actually takes a good arm.) Meanwhile, Jon relayed the incident to his colleagues.

“Bummer dude,” was the response.

“He’s not even 3.”

“Holy crap! That’s awesome!”

His father and I had a chat with him the following morning.

“Do we throw shoes?”

“Noooooo,” gloated a smug Search. “Destroy throw Bonnie’s shoe on the roof.”

Three hours after I dropped him off at school, I got the call. Alas, it was not from a scout.

My precious Destroy had once again demonstrated his athletic capabilities, hurling his lady’s shoe over the 14-foot fence into the neighbors yard.

Thankfully, the chickens that live there did not eat the sparkly pink shoe. The family that lives there returned the footwear along with admiration for my tiny tot’s gun.

Publically the kid’s on the bench; he’s in trouble and we’re going to work on some behavior modification. Privately – I’m seriously impressed.

MLB Draft 2030.

And really, Bonnie needs to keep her shoes on.

For those curious, it is not possible to flush an entire roll of toilet paper down the toilet – cardboard roll and all. Even if you climb into the bowl to help shove it down. 

Dinner was done. Not necessarily eaten, but food had been prepared, set out and smeared upon body and table. I was clearing the resulting catastrophic culinary creation of modern art and returning dishes to the dishwasher.

A toddler stumbled by, clad in nothing but a diaper and single sock.

“Umm…Search?” I called curiously following after him.

However in a reversal of roles, I was the one quickly distracted when I heard a mischievous gleeful giggle coming from the bathroom.

Suddenly Search risky-businessed across the wood floor hallway into the bathroom.

Destroy was dripping. And grinning.

The toilet was angry. Sputtering garbled gurgling protests.

“Potty time!” the boys exclaimed excitedly, repeatedly flushing the handle while toilet water gushed around my ankles.

I held my breath and tentatively lifted the lid. Bubbling and half dissolved, a defeated roll of toilet paper.

“Shit,” I stated unapologetically. Just want I wanted to do on a Monday evening – bobbing for tushy-wipes.

For the first time in my life I plunged my arm into the elimination commode. I squeezed the liquid from the decimated roll and rushed to throw it out. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.

There was a clattering while I was scrubbing my hands raw with scalding water. (Yes, I’m aware previous poopsplosions may seem ickier than a clean toilet. Not the point.)

“OH MY GOD! GET OUT OF THE TOILET”

“I helping,” Destroy replied, looking at me like I was a complete moron for expressing concern over the fact he’d just shoved two more rolls into the plumbing.

Meanwhile, Search had liberated one leg from his diaper. And peed. To be fair, it was in the general vicinity of the little frog potty. And he did get some in it.

“That does it. Get in the bath.”

The tub filled. Soap lathered. Mom properly soaked through and through. (Seriously. Wetter than the kids actually *IN* the tub.)

Destroy stood. He jumped (an impressive one too – his little legs cleared the water line). Boy was he pleased with his splash landing. “I JUMP!”

Both boys were rapidly swept from the underwater lair. (Johnson’s Baby Shampoo is gentle – no one will notice if it’s not totally rinsed right? Besides, how is soap scum different from the dirt they typically wear.)

“Mommy. I need my water.”

“No. No more liquids until Daddy’s home.”