I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

Eve got to have a playdate with a little boy named Franklin, who will be one of seven other children in her preschool class this fall. They are both the same size, they both like to play chase, and oh, they both have this little thing in common called bilateral Wilms.


The highlight of the visit for me was when they both hoisted up their shirts and started comparing ports and scars. I can't wait to see what they do with the six other kids in their class.

Because it had been a whole two days since we were at the doctor, I didn't want Cigna to get worried about us, so I took Nat to her 5-year checkup. She got two shots. Under normal circumstances, I would rather be forked in the eye than let this child get poked with a needle. But, I guess having a sister with cancer has its perks when your mom always carries Emla in her purse.

While I was busy ironing my "World's Best Mom" t-shirt after Nat's extraordinary performance during the shots, I forgot to prepare the child for the finger prick.

What the cuss, mom?

Natalie is off the charts for length. In fact, one of the four-year-olds at preschool camp told their mom that Natalie was not, in fact, only 5. She was definitely at least 9 or 10. Maybe she's got Benjamin Button disease.

Back home, I did one of those things where you see/hear everything that is going on but you're not REALLY seeing/hearing anything. It always seems to happen to me when one of the children is scaling a refrigerator or super-gluing playmates to the wall. I'm not sure why this happens, but I'm blaming it on the heat.

Scene: The living room. The floor is littered with every single toy from the playroom and the toys are littered with cracker crumbs and popcorn kernels. There is some fighting and whining and a mommy watching it all but taking none of it in.

Nat: Mo-o-o-om! Daniel pinched me!

Dan: Because you pinched ME!

Nat: Because YOU called ME Mister Spitty Face!

Dan: Because YOU ARE Mister Spitty Face!

(Editor's note: Kids always exclaim things, even when whispering.)

Who moved my whistle? No, I'm no referee. But I think it's break-time. Adult swim!