Child Labor.

Our commissary got a big shipment this week and all hands were on deck to help unload. And when I say 'all hands', I mean even my underage, indentured servants were forced by their mean mother to help unload boxes and stock shelves. At first they did great, because manual labor was a novelty for them. Organizing and arranging little boxes of macaroni and cheese and taco shells and making them look nice was a favorite job of the girls. Henry had so much fun, he said, "Wow, I could do this for a living!" Whew, that's a relief. Now I can put his college fund towards my shoe allowance.

After a couple hours, however, the boys lost their enthusiasm and began complaining. "I'm so tired," Jack whined, every time I walked by him.  "I could go to sleep right on top of this box."  This went on for another half hour or so when I realized Henry was nowhere to be found. It turns out he was hiding behind a pile of boxes playing on an ipod. 

The girls remained excellent little workers (they still believe in being good the week before Christmas), but I felt like my pampered boys needed a little wake-up call. I outlined all the jobs they were going to have to do when we got home to make up for being lazy workers at the commissary, but I was foiled by Graca, who had cleaned the entire house including two refrigerators, changed all the linens, ironed and washed all the laundry, ironed my tablecloths and napkins, and swept all the patios  in the time we were gone.  Hmmm.  And I wonder how my boys got so lazy.

They all rallied from their labor-induced exhaustion when they got home and played outside in a torrential downpour. Okay, maybe I locked them outside. What? There wasn't any lightning.

Look at that water splashing up on their feet. Now they won't need to take showers tonight. Bonus!