I guess there never really is a good time to bring this up, so now will have to do.

When we, as a family, moved to the Houston area a few years ago, we decided to employ the talents of a realtor agency, even though we were only looking to rent a home at the time. Our mood as caregivers to our then 3 children was past excited and more of a desperate, bordering, panicky in our home search. We waited patiently at a very nice, air-conditioned, quiet office while our 60-something new friend (aka realtor) was looking things up for us: matching criteria, numbers of potties, er toilets, square footage and so forth.

Our kids, especially the 2 boys, were having a hard time keeping still and being quiet, as we really needed them to be in this tense situation. I was horrified when I caught them playing with bouncy balls (you know the super bouncy ones that bounce REALLY far and are noisy and kinda hard?) I tried to keep my “ix-nay on the oise-nay” on the down-low, since it was so quiet and we were trying to give a good impression. They reluctantly complied and put their playthings in their pockets.

Moments later, the older of the two boys slid up to me, with the gravest of faces, staring at the floor and gently complained: “Daddy, why can’t we take our balls out and play with them?”

Uncontrollable laughter ensued.

And darn it if he didn’t lighten the mood instantly. Way to go, spawn of mine.

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