Family humor: Dress code alert; first-aid is for sons; lazier than sloths

Our home is totally the Kool-Aid house.

That’s what you call the place all the kids seem to gather at — it’s not so named because we serve the stuff. Good grief, we absolutely do not. Does anybody? Do stores even still sell it? Whoever invented those little dye packets that you add 5 pounds of sugar to was obviously not a parent who ever witnessed the aftereffects of that much sugar consumption. Shudder.

Anyway, I would like the record to show that I only serve other people’s children filtered water and fresh fruit, lest I be judged by the content of my fridge rather than my character. Because, let’s be honest, we parents are always judging each other and our child-rearing abilities or lack thereof based, in part, on our snack choices.

But, back to the topic at hand. We seem to always have at least one bonus kid hanging around. A little chaotic? Yes. A lot loud? Most definitely. But call me a weirdo, I like it. I know where everyone is and what everyone is up to. For the most part. I’ve also become incredibly adept at tuning out noise, even when the kids screech at frequencies high enough to freak out dolphins. I expect that from girls, but how can 10-year-old boys shriek like that?

I will say this about the differences between “play dates” with girls versus those with boys: An extra girl will for sure mean giggles and goofiness, but if you add another boy to the equation, you are cleaning up blood.

Little dudes are rough.

I’ve caught them stuffing pillows beneath their shirts and ramming into each other. Another time, I discovered — only later after I was shown videotape that could have been subpoenaed as evidence — that No. 3 dragged our little trampoline into his room and proceeded to jump over his buddy on the way to a slam dunk. Now, we have ceilings so low that NBA players could never safely enter our house. I can’t believe No. 3 didn’t end up through the roof. It goes without saying I’m deliriously happy he didn’t squash his friend, either.

Definitely dodged a bullet that time. What didn’t get dodged one steamy afternoon? A baseball bat — metal of course — being used to smack around a flat soccer ball.

I was busy getting dinner ready when No. 3 busted through the sticky kitchen door. “Uh, Mom, you’d better come out here,” he breathlessly said in a tone that could only mean one thing ... a possible ER visit. I rushed outside, his nosy sisters tailing behind me.

No. 3’s buddy sat in the grass, hands covering his face, and — no exaggeration — blood spurting between his fingers.

Luckily, I knew — either from my beloved “Mayo Clinic Family Health Book” or maybe a “Scrubs” episode? — that the face and scalp have tons of blood vessels close to the surface, so when they are busted wide-open, they squirt. A lot.

I grabbed a wad of paper towels and applied as much pressure as I safely could to a child not my own. Then, I walked him into the house and acted like a doctor with a medical degree freshly acquired from the Internet, looking at pupils, quizzing him about how many fingers I was holding up, finding out if any family members were personal injury lawyers.

Despite all the blood shed across the backyard, the cut really wasn’t so bad. Thank goodness, his mom agreed.

So, phew, while I can’t say, “No blood, no foul,” no lawsuits were filed. Still, just to be on the safe side, we probably should print up some liability waivers to keep by the door.

For the most part, I come off as a pretty normal person.

I do a fairly decent job of hiding my mental dysfunctions, chief of which is an affliction called parentnoia.

Never heard of it?

Well, I’m not surprised. I just came up with it. But if you have kids, I guarantee you suffer from it.

Parentnoia is paranoia crossed with parent. I don’t mean a fear of parenting, but rather being flippin’ afraid of everything on your kids’ behalf because you ARE a parent.

Being a mom or dad means constant, crippling fear. It’s like always walking around with a “kick me” sign on your back — and knowing it’s there.

Now before you go thinking that something is really wrong with me, you should know that I don’t insist on staying and supervising (and stealing cake, OK maybe just a little piece) when my kids get invited to birthday parties. I figure kindergarten is a fine time to start that drop-and-go habit. I’m not one of those who never lets her kids go to sleepovers. I get the idea that you’re supposed to raise them to know right from wrong and to be good, decent people who always floss and never go to bed wearing makeup. The whole point is that you do your best and one day your reward is the kids head off to a good but not overly expensive college and refuse to participate in any stupid fraternity stunts and then go on to be happy, well-adjusted people (despite their mother’s neuroses) while making the world a better place in their own special way.

Still, it’s hard not to be protective.

No. 3 is in double-digits, not a little guy, yet I make him call me upon arrival when he walks the 100 feet to his friend’s house. My husband, who claims his parents let him drive to Mexico with his girlfriend when he was 10 years old, made merciless fun of me when I told him this. I reminded him about all the kids who’ve been swiped from their very own neighborhoods.

Bad stuff happens. I know — I read the Internet.

I saw a gut-wrenching story the other day about a little girl, riding on a boat with her family, who died after a fish jumped out of the water and hit her. A fish. Who knew that sturgeons are covered in bony plates and can leap out of the water and cause such heartbreak? Now I have something else to worry about.

So, no, I am not at all excited that No. 1 has recently acquired her driver’s permit. I’m freaked out.

Not at all because I doubt her — she is smart and careful and conscientious. I’m worried about all those idiots out there, many of whom I’ve seen on Speedway and even the Interstate, eyes on their cell phones instead of the road.

I would like to swaddle my kids in 100 layers of Bubble Wrap and drive them everywhere until they are at least 45 years old.

But, I can’t.

Parenting is wearing your heart on your sleeve and being able to do absolutely nothing to protect it. Well, I have three little hearts running around. Don’t mess with them. I will take you out.

School uniforms.

I love them, and I kind of hate them.

They do save so much money because, after all, no teenager gets excited about clothes shopping when it’s khakis and collared shirts in extremely limited color palettes ... that you can pick up at Office Max.

Still, uniforms, or more specifically the dress codes regarding them, can be tricky suckers.

No. 2’s school — which allows white, baby-blue and dark-green collared shirts — actually made one of its former colors verboten. From the school’s newsletter: “During the last school year we saw an increase in the wide range of what people believe is teal for their colored shirts. Many of these are not teal at all, but electric blue, jade green, or turquoise.”

Of course teal shouldn’t be acceptable — even spell check isn’t recognizing it as I type.

But, seriously, what’s wrong with people? Not knowing the difference between teal and electric blue? Sheesh. Have these parents never shopped J. Crew? Everyone knows teal is green-blue, just like persimmon is orange and shale is gray but slate is gray with a slight azure tinge. If it’s still confusing, let me refer you to Nigerian Wedding Blog, which has a most helpful post that differentiates teal, turquoise and aqua.

I kid, of course — not about the blog post, that’s for realsies — but about the color issues. I have mistakenly purchased black pants instead of the required navy because, no matter what Nora Ephron said about a woman’s neck, the cones in the ol’ retina are the first to go.

Anyway, this uniform stuff is all very foreign to me because when I was in public school, no one cared.

Spaghetti-strap tops? Mini skirts? Sure! Girls wearing completely open-backed tops? No problem. Our get-ups also included leg warmers, lace gloves and a popular, highly permed, gravity-defying hairdo courtesy of Aqua Net that, while it made you a wickedly dangerous chemistry lab partner, didn’t automatically get you kicked out of school for violating the dress code’s ban on “extreme” hairstyles, in effect at many schools these days.

If you’ve ever seen a John Hughes movie, then you know what scary sartorial times the ’80s were. We could have used some limits.

This was my era. So of course I didn’t think anything of it when No. 2 set off to school with a freshly-inked henna tattoo on her right hand, courtesy of her supremely artistic older sister. After the fact, when the seemingly innocent temporary tat spiraled into Hennagate, Big Daddy claimed that he had misgivings. But, pppbblt, what does he know? Family lore has it that he not only regularly wore a fedora in high school, but he rocked a puffy vest a la Marty McFly in “Back to the Future”.

Not listening to his advice on accessorizing.

Guess we should have.

School officials told No. 2 to cover up that tat, with a glove, until it faded. A rule follower in this particular instance, she retrieved a hot-pink mitten slathered in black and white hearts. Yup, definitely less distracting. I ranted for a bit, getting so angry my face turned a lovely shade of crimson — or could it have been closer to Ferrari Red?

No. 1, ever the smart one, slyly pointed out that the school’s on the hook for discrimination if the tattoo is religious. I briefly contemplated sending in a note that said, “We’re Hindu. Back off.” Instead, I reread the dress code and quizzed No. 2 about who said what.

The actual dress code offered nothing specific about temporary body art and turns out no teachers complained. The only people who told her to cover up only did so after No. 2 thrust her hand in their faces and pointed out her, ahem, inkdiscretion. So in the end, I told No. 2 to pack a glove, just in case, but that likely no one would even bring it up again.

You know what? No one did. So while it would make a much better story to tell you that I marched down to the school and stood up for my kid’s rights (call me Norma Cray... Cray) and had a showdown, things quietly faded. Just like the henna tattoo. And, that’s the appropriate ending. There are so many bigger, more important issues to deal with at our schools than a kid who shows up with temporary dye on her hand two shades darker than her skin in an innocuous abstract design.

So, that was the end of that tat. It is not, however, the end of me trying to track down actual photographic evidence of my significant other in a fedora and/or a puffy vest.

Well, that went fast.

I’m talking about summer break, of course. And good riddance.

That said, I know that back-to-school is a difficult time of transition for many of us with kids.

Everyone’s adjusting to the routine and some are only now becoming acquainted with it — welcome, kindergarten parents and no, it does not get easier as your kids get older. But I’d like to do what I can to make you feel better about the confusing changes that are going on and to make you realize that, really, things aren’t so bad.

Yup, this can only mean …. It’s time for my annual summer vacation recap, also titled: That Which Doesn’t Kill Us — Or Make Us Kill Other Family Members — Only Makes Us Stronger.

San Diego Edition.

There was some doubt as to whether we’d actually escape the searing heat and go on a trip this year, what with club volleyball stretching into late June and lingering bills and the Herculean effort involved in finding a week that didn’t conflict with basketball camp and work schedules, not to mention the complications of securing dog care and finding a legit place to stay that wasn’t a Craigslist scam.

But, Big Daddy did it. Found a Mission Beach condo we could afford tucked in between the beach and the bay and with parking! Although, it did require backing in to a Smart car-sized slot so while the five of us only have emotional scars from sharing one shower and nonstop 24-7 togetherness, the minivan has some actual physical ones. So sorry, back left bumper and entire passenger side.

The California adventure got off to a slow, very slow, start. It took forever to get to San Diego. Quick Parental PSA for road trips: When you suggest the kids bring water for the long haul, actually check the container and make sure it’s not a 15-gallon jug that is consumed within the first 10 minutes of being in the car so you don’t have to stop every 28 miles for pee breaks. That one, I’m not embarrassed to admit, is completely my husband’s fault. Honestly, it amazes me how we can be 15 years into this parenting gig and still he continues to make such rookie mistakes.

One thing we do have down, though: Allow nonstop DVD watching while traveling. Having them glued to their favorite TV show, currently “Psych”, means a pretty chill car ride, until they fight about who scarfed down all the White Cheddar Cheez-Its.

I could go on and on, but quite frankly, the PTSD has made me block out most of the trip, and anyway, the current trend in journalism is the quick-hit listicle, so let’s boil this sucker down to Top Five Highlights:

1 I did not have to cook or drive for an entire week, a lovely break that typically requires something drastic, like surgery or popping out a kid.

2 Even though seven different forms of sunscreen — stick, cream, spray — got packed into the luggage and we wiped out five containers, four out of five family members ended up burned.

3 In an attempt to broaden horizons — and my own amusement — I offered No. 3 $10 to order an oyster, eat it — and not throw up.

4 We really indulged — phenomenal Pizza Port pies and yummy, big-as-your-head doughnuts from Donut Bar — to the point that someone (ahem, not me) cracked the toilet seat as soon as we got home.

5 That first evening, the three of them, crammed into one room, laughed hysterically and way, way too late into the night over their goofy, inside jokes. Each and every other day, they fought like they were engaged in a full-blown prison riot. No joke, I thought I should check for shanks.

But, even the fighting made me nostalgic because as I looked at the toddlers splashing on the beach and then at my own kids who’ve grown so fast, I was painfully aware that these family trips, warts and all, don’t go on forever.

Here is a blow-by-blow account of how I wake up every, single day:

Slowly, ever so slowly, I try to surreptitiously glance at the clock, craning my neck toward the glowing red numbers while trying not to move the bed or attract any unnecessary attention — 5:15. That would be a.m., of course.

And whomp, there it is.

Clink. Scrape.

As if I didn’t hear the first time, it starts all over again: that sound of little nails against a metal, dog-crate door. The pooch wants out of the clink. Time to get up — like it or not.

Not. Most definitely not.

With two teens in the house and one kid who actually asked for a sleeping mask, I was home free, I tell ya. Home free. I was well on my way to getting a magical nine hours of sleep — which, in my ideal world — is how much shuteye I would get to be a fully functional, non-grouchy human instead of the pathetic six hours I now get. ’Cept I lost my heart to a sweet, homeless, white puppy with blue eyes and a freckled nose who happens to be deaf but whose greater disability is that she’s incapable of sleeping past 5:15.

And so I get up. Eaaaaaaarly.

Once, and only once in the 11 months that we’ve had her, the little dog made it all the way to 6 a.m. — a miracle, and I would have been so deliriously happy had a black, wet nose belonging to Dumb Dog No. 2 not poked me in the eye at 4 a.m. to go outside. And even though I flopped back into bed, I didn’t fall back asleep. I was wide awake, counting down the time until my four-legged alarm went off. I watched the shards of morning light slice through the edges of the doesn’t-quite-fit blackout shade on our bedroom window. And waited.

Sure enough — scraaaaape.

I held up a finger, which is supposed to mean “wait.” Instead, thumping started, loud and steady like a heartbeat, which made me think of Edgar Allen Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart” except this was just a Tell-Tale … Tail. Oh, I know it’s dumb. Cut me some slack. I already told you I don’t get enough sleep.

My unfortunate predicament isn’t helped by the fact that I have a teenager in the house who says things like this: “It’s so weird being up this early.”

Uttered at 9:45 a.m.

Brutally unfair.

Still, I guess I should look at the sad, but bright side: I do get to grocery-shop nice and early before it gets crowded and hot. The not-so-bright side: I have to sit around forever before the store even opens, trying not to make a peep and wake up everyone else. I’m seriously contemplating making Circle K my main shopping stop so I can knock out that errand at 5:30 a.m. Slim Jims and Cheetos for dinner! Pretty sure two out of three kids would be on-board with that.

I live with cereal killers.

A house full.

They plow through the crunchy stuff like a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills spending alimony money. A box will be thoroughly decimated in a day or two. Tops.

It’s the breakfast of choice and, routinely enjoyed as an afternoon snack.

Cereal is so revered that an entire shelf of our room-enough-for-one-butt-only pantry is dedicated to the stuff. In fact, there’s even an auxiliary shelf up high for the overrun.

So you can imagine how a sale — buy one, get one half-off — goes over around here. It’s enough of a deal to make Big Daddy drag himself out of the house on a Sunday morning to accompany me on my weekly Target trek. Whee — a family outing!

B.D. grabbed a cart and went one way, kids trailing behind, while I took one of my own and went the opposite direction.

I should explain that I h-a-t-e buying cereal for him. It is a soul-sucking experience. He is veeeeerrry specific in his grain consumption and when I am entrusted with this very important task, I invariably do something wrong like buy cinnamon-coated Colon Blow when I should have purchased the cinnamon INFUSED kind. Or, I think it’s OK to swap the cheaper, off-brand Honey Bunches of Oafs for the actual Post label Honey Bunches of Oats. Not OK.

He filled his cart like a contestant on a game show with only 30 seconds and an unlimited budget while mine contained.... dental floss. We caravaned up to the cash register, cart brimming with so much cereal, it prompted a text from a mom I know through school.

“Did I just see you at Target buying 102 boxes of cereal?!”

Oh, the shame.

We got plain Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, Raisin Bran, Raisin Bran Crunch, five different kinds of granola, Oatmeal Squares, Go Lean Crunch!, Go Lean Crisp! (not sure why these skinny cereals elicit such excitement), Great Grains cranberry-almond crunch, blueberry-flavored Mini-Wheats, strawberry-flavored Mini-Wheats. I counted it all up — not quite 102 boxes. More like 20. And not a single box, much to my dismay, of Cocoa Pebbles, my preferred cereal of choice. Every now and then, I’ll indulge — I stash the box in my special hiding spot in the little pantry and consume it there, too, lest a child see me and subsequently want to share MY cereal.

So, once again, all is right with the world because the designated cereal shelf is full, as is the auxiliary shelf above it.

Perhaps the stuff’ll last a month. Maybe. If we’re lucky.

Breathe in, breathe out. Everything’s going to be OK.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I slid out of the driver’s seat, all the way out of the car and moved to my new spot. As a passenger — with a teenage driver. Holy shift.

Never thought I’d see the day.

We took No. 1’s first practice spin in a church parking lot — because that’s where I started. Good juju. Plus, I figured afterward I could swing through confession. “Forgive me, father, for I have brought yet another teenage driver onto the roads…”

Kidding. Sort of.

I’ve been driving so long that I actually forgot the most basic of instructions. I looked down to catch her working the brake and gas like they were Big Wheel pedals.

“Uh, you don’t use both feet,” I said, calmly.

Truth be told, I’m totally underplaying it because I’m pretty sure I yelled, at the top of my lungs, “OH MY GOD!!! ONE FOOT! ONE FOOT! YOU DON’T USE TWO FEET ON THE PEDALS!”

Now I understand why my mother was always clutching rosary beads in the car when I drove. Kidding. Sort of.

I inadvertently sucked in my breath when we approached a parked car, but I actually managed a normal speaking voice when I pointed it out and then asked, “How fast are you going?”

“Ten miles an hour.”

I could’ve sworn we were going way faster.

I also could have sworn we spent 12 hours, not 12 minutes, coasting along with No. 1 behind the wheel. She did pretty well. Had we been in a church parking lot in Great Britain — where motorists are supposed to drive on the left — I would have given her even higher marks.

Ah, this all takes me back to my own amateur driving days. I feel like it was mere days ago. Oh wait. It kind of was.

I shuttled my parents, both of ‘em, to an appointment.

There I was, driving Miss — and Mr. — Daisy and got a little confused.

“Where are you going?” my dad asked.

I’d missed the turn.

“Oh yeah, my bad,” so I whipped into a cul-de-sac and did a u-ie. I may not have slowed down appreciably.

“Geez, Kristen!” Mr. Daisy shouted.

He helpfully pointed out the speed limit and that traffic enforcement had been patrolling this particular area recently. I was, maybe, two miles above the speed limit.

At one point, I actually heard him wince and when I quickly glanced into the rearview mirror, I could see his death grip on the armrests.

Awwwww. Just like old times.

Now if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go look up some driving schools. Maybe there’s a buy-one-get one special.

Extreme Hormone Warning: I’m feeling a little “Real Housewives” today.

Not in a I’m-going-to-punch-you-in-the-face-because-you-made-fun-of-my-hair way, but more like I could dissolve into an overly dramatic sobfest — at any minute.

I’ve got a bad case of the summertime blues.

It’s not the wicked heat that’s getting to me. And it’s not because I’m jealous that the kids get to summer-camp-it-up, shooting arrows (they’re not getting shipped off to “The Hunger Games” — it’s a legit camp activity) and swimming and slurping Popsicles while I work, work, work. I’m not sniffling because summer upends my life thanks to weekly schedule changes with who goes where and when because good, all-day camps that don’t cost a mortgage are harder to find than No. 3’s left shoe.

No, I’m full-on, diva weepy because the end of school signals another year’s passing like nothing else. It’s a regular reminder of how quickly time flies. As we drove home on the very last day of No. 1’s first year as a high-school student, she said, “You know, I thought this year was going by really slowly. But, it actually went by pretty fast.” Then the kicker: “I’m so glad my freshman year is over.”

Gulp. One step closer to college and flying the nest.

All the graduation pictures of other people’s kids on Facebook are kind of killing me, too.

The close of every school year sparks a mild to moderate midlife crisis — not that it at all bothers the kids. They’re psyched, especially since they start the end-of-the-year countdown immediately after Christmas break.

Having school-age kids turns your life into a perpetual cocktail party — not just because you start drinking — but mostly because there’s that constant small talk with a new group of parents. Then, just when you sort of become friends, boom. School’s out. Time to start all over again.

Don’t even get me started on the teachers. You forge this bond with someone who nurtures your children as much as you do, or in the case of No. 3’s lovely fourth-grade teacher, probably more so, and then they’re gone, too.

It’s enough to make me want to curl up with my woobie blanket and suck my thumb.

All too soon, it’ll be back to shaking kids awake at the butt-crack of dawn, piles of homework, and that awkwardness of getting to know new folks. At least this go-round, we’ll enjoy the familiarity of high school, now that we have the swing of things, and relish one last year of elementary and middle school. Deep sigh. Everyone’s getting so old — and no one knows that better than my hairdresser.

Help wanted: We are a fast-growing, fast-paced mom-and-pop operation seeking a licensed driver with a high tolerance for fighting and overall teen angst, Ph.D.-level math skills and an above-average ability to multitask. Ideal candidate requires little sleep and doesn’t mind working 24-7 for free and on holidays. Mild to moderate hearing loss not necessary, but beneficial.

So, interested?

Ha. Thought not.

No, I am not at all expecting any takers for the demanding position of third parent — some days, gotta be honest, I wonder how I got suckered in — but we sure could use another one. Three kids need three parents because life is exactly like basketball, and man-to-man defense just makes good sense*.

The world, though, caters to families of four.

Drinking glasses come in sets of four. Sedans comfortably seat four. Disneyland vacation packages: always for four. Have you ever tried to seat five at a restaurant? Someone — ahem, me — always gets crammed in at the edge.

A family of five is inconvenient. And yet, I can’t imagine anything else.

I’d always wanted three kids. No particular reason; the number just sounded good to me. My husband, who on the other hand is one of three himself, had always maintained that he was perfectly fine with two. Then one day, about 10½ years ago, he changed his mind. “You don’t regret the things in life you do; you regret the things you don’t do,” he told me.

I won! So we have three kids.

That old “Schoolhouse Rock” video is right: Three is a magic number.

“The past and the present and the future.

“Faith and Hope and Charity,

“The heart and the brain and the body,

“Give you three as a magic number.”

Even if it does make things tricky at restaurants.

*Excuse the sports analogy. That was a shameless suck-up attempt to get a basketball-loving boy to look at something other than the Sports section on Sunday.

An object at rest remains at rest unless an external force acts upon it.

So says Isaac Newton.

I don’t know much about the guy, but the dude must’ve had kids. Otherwise, how could he ever have come up with that law of motion?

Scene: Late 1600s, a sunny spring day and Newton tries to roust three children of varying ages from their straw mattresses, “Come on! Pip pip! The day is wasting away! Let’s do some calculus or devise some new theorems, see what happens when apples drop from trees!”

No one moves. Inertia. Which, incidentally, would be a really pretty name for a girl.

During spring break, I saw plenty of objects at rest — all over my furniture.

Three kids, transfixed by glowing screens — one playing a game, another catching up on “Teen Wolf” and a third watching, inexplicably, the Chinese-dubbed version of “White House Down” — their faces looking eerily green in the dark living room.

Apparently slothiness is contagious because normally No. 3 has the limitless energy level of an espresso-drinking border collie, and yet even he can’t tear himself away from this game app called AA. Interesting coincidence. The addictive game also apparently requires a 12-step program.

“Hey guys! We should do something,” said External Force No. 1 (moi).

No one even looked up.

Dead silence.

Finally, someone spoke. “Like what” came the question in a tone as flat as a really bad pancake.

“Do you want to go bowling?” asked External Force No. 2 (Dad).

“Eeeeeeeeeh.”

The sound of complete disinterest is probably the same exact noise that teen sloths make when their moms ask them to do something productive. “Hey, why don’t you move down that branch? Just an inch? You’ve been in that spot all day.”

“Eeeeeeeeh. I moved an inch yesterday. Eeeeeeeeeeh.”

We ticked off options — board games, a bike ride, laundry, clean house, write a letter to prospective adoptive parents on why you should be chosen over your lazy siblings?

Not surprisingly, Lump Nos. 1, 2 and 3 all agreed upon the very passive activity of watching a movie, one we’d even seen before.

Times have changed.

When those boogers were really little, school breaks were about getting out and DOING SOMETHING. Anything. They couldn’t get their shoes on fast enough. Time off is definitely a lot more sedate in our house. I get it — life’s super busy and school is a lot more demanding than early elementary when all you really had to do was learn to use scissors to cut paper, not your hair, and that it’s not appropriate to lick non-food items, like other students.

Actually, now that I think about it, I believe I have a revolutionary new theorem. Let’s call it Cook’s Law of No Motion: If three constantly-moving objects are at rest and not picking fights with each other, LEAVE THEM ALONE. And go take a nap.