99 Problems but a t shirt ain't one

My son has 47 t shirts in his closet. 47.

The origin of this over abundance started out pretty inaccous.  He grew. With the whole growing thing came the need to buy him clothes that fit properly and cover his navel.  Then I placed his sister in charge of laundry.  When I couldn't find anything to put him in, generally while in a hurry to get some place important, I would ask

"Doesn't he have more shirts than this?'

"No."

"But I thought..."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

So the next time that there was some spare quarters and a half off sale at the thrift store, home with more shirts I would come.  Repeat this a couple times, add in a huffy mother who commandeers laundry duty when there are no clean socks, and now we have 47 shirts.

There are still some in the laundry.

 No wonder I am overwhelmed caring for all the things and the stuff in our house.  I am not even really sure what to do with this problem. Since it is the end of September in Michigan, I can pack most of them away and switch out for turtleneck and sweaters, but how many do I even keep?  He still has a little brother to hand things down to.

That little brother is the same child who is the most destructive and messy child I have ever seen while simultaneously hating having anything on his clothes - ever.  Not even water. No, it will dry is not a suitable answer. He MUST CHANGE! So, consequently, he goes through three to four shirts a day, and some are not salvageable by my standards.  He may justifiably need more shirts when he reaches the same size as his big brother's current one and does not require each and every second supervision.

Who I am kidding?  

Due to the recent

 "Snake in the Wall Incident"

 Children will require constant surveillance until no longer at my residence.

Being brave

Last night the boys were wild. 

Bouncing, rolling, tumbling through the house in thumps and bumps they alternated between loud laughs, wails of outrage  and thwack smacks of retaliation.  Fall allergy season with a family of asthmatics has caused them to be more cooped up than usual, with no real outlet for their energy - despite being allowed to ride a tricycle through the house. Getting school work accomplished had been almost unbearable for both parties involved.  So at 9:00 at night, well past bedtime, as they trolloped through the living room with a blanket as hump 1 and hump 2 of a camel, it was clear that they must be taken OUTSIDE AT ONCE.

Get jackets and shoes - we are going out

But it is dark

But there are mosquitoes

There are also wood floors, hard corners, and a used up amount of patience from sisters who had been used as trampolines, stepping stones, furniture, carnival rides and jungle gyms by little brothers trying to amuse themselves.

And so into the wet and the dark and the lawn we ventured

At first there was wonder - we were out at night - and amazement - look at the stars - and a slight bit of mischief - I can stomp your shadow.

But then the dark seemed closer, bigger, darker.

Monsters! 

Nonsense - let's walk

But it's dark

It is also light - see the street lights, and the stars, and the headlights from the cars?

This is our house, our yard.  Our school house and its yard, Daddy's cottage and the orchard.  We own all of this - it is all ours - where we live and play every day.  There is nothing to be afraid of in our own space

And then we stepped out of it.

We kept walking out of our own space, its safety and security, and all that is familiar, with one foot and than the other.  We turned down the next street, less lit, with barely discernible shapes looming half obscured in the darkness.

Monsters!

No, no monsters.

Home? !

Yes, but not yet, just a little further.

Hand in hand we walked, arms swinging.  In those quiet moments my boys learned to be just a bit braver.

They learned they could venture out beyond what they knew, and come back okay.  

They learned that what they thought was scary could also be beautiful.  

And in the end, there is no place like home.