Hello, Saturday. We meet again.

Kids are doing chores, I’m doing oatmeal. We’re late. It leisurely turns into brunch and we usually finish breakfast by lunchtime, and this happens almost every week. It’s okay. This is our catch up day, our finish-the-laundry day, our listen-to-music-and-read-Oliver-Twist-and-play-with-seeds-in-the-dirt day.

I’m chopping apples to stir into oatmeal and the girls are ready, like always, waiting at the table. The boys, like always, are still raising a ruckus in their room, finishing their chores and getting ready to vacuum. Except for the last few minutes it’s been…quiet. Strange. That should’ve been the tip off.

The stillness is suddenly broken by music blaring from upstairs, from the boys room, as loud as the stereo will go. I immediately recognize it – it’s the Imperial Death March  from Star Wars (you know it, too, but I strongly suggest you go ahead and click the link to experience the full effect of this).

I look up and…there is Afton, solemnly marching towards us, past us, on his way to the laundry room, with his right arm fully extended out in front of him. Dangling from two pinched fingers of the extended limb, so as to to keep the offending article as far away from the rest of his body as possible, is a pair of dirty underwear.

I realize that the music was for my benefit. It’s kind of fun to live with a soundtrack.

The rest of the day putters through with chores and reading and a late lunch that nudges into naptime. I answer a million questions during the day and realize that, oh yes – I also have a three-year-old in full bloom.

“What is God’s wast name?”

“What? I dunno. I don’t think He has a last name.”

“He doesn’t?!” Incredulous disbelief. “Does Jesus have a wast name?”

“I don’t think so.” I consider whether or not I could get away with saying “Josephson” and then decide not to.

“He probwy knows. I fink I know His wast name.”

“Oh really? What?”

“Pattycake.”

All kinds of questions. A lot of them lately involve underwear, as this is a new development in our lives. Our sweet piano teacher – and anyone else who will listen – gets an earful pretty often about potty charts and new underwear and how many squares of toilet paper you’re supposed to use. Also, I undergo regular interrogation about this business of mommies and daddies not having to wear jammies, footie or otherwise, at bedtime like kids do. After six kids I reserve the right to deflect any question I don’t want to deal with at this time. Like why baby boys have sticky-outy parts and baby girls are…you know, normal. Ay caramba.

We roll through naptime, quiet time, and Vin comes home. Our weekend commences and we are so excited because it’s going to be four! days! long! and we finish dinner with the kids and do bedtime and get ready for our weekly movie date.

It’s a fairly lame movie, but the food is good and the company is excellent. The kids are all asleep and we’re two-thirds of the way through the movie, and suddenly –

Darth Vader’s presence is announced by a full orchestra and approximately eight squadrons of Storm Troopers.

The Imperial Death March is blaring from the boys room. And it’s midnight.

One boy is screaming, another boy is thinking about screaming, and another boy is sleeping through the entire Imperial Troop invasion, softly snoring…just like he did when the tree fell on our house. At least some things are predictable.

We fumble in the dark for the volume button, for the off button, for the electrical plug, whatever, and finally, there is quiet. We calm down all screaming and potential screaming. The cats, those lazy feline rubberneckers, wander in to see what all the fuss is about. We discover that while setting the soundtrack for the Great Imperial Underwear March, someone accidentally set the timer to go off again at midnight.

After pushing every button on the stereo in a totally random fashion, we somehow manage to un-set the timer to resume bedtime, resume sleep, and resume our lame-but-almost-over movie. We leave the room and a whuffly snore erupts from the bottom bunk. Still oblivious.

Strong, the force is with him. Question him tomorrow…we will.