It's not the iron

Damn. Bloodwork came back. Not a flipping thing wrong with me to explain the ongoing exhaustion.

So maybe this is the problem: my kids are obstinate little cannonballs that explode through life at a breakneck run and stop at all the wrong times.

Take, for instance, the fair yesterday. We had barely negotiated the entrance, even buying scalped Super One Lunch tickets to avoid the straggling ticket line, when Maya darted in front of a cruising ATV, nearly ending her short and adorable life to four knobby tires and a camouflauge-painted grill. I screamed, thus attracting the attention of about fifty innocent passers-by, though the four-wheeler was already coming to a stop.

After that heart attack we ventured into the entrance of every animal barn. The entrance to the sheep; the entrance to the pigs; the entrance to the cows. Every time about three stalls in Jordan stiffened like he had stepped on a live wire, spun around and split. We repeatedly were forced to follow him, grabbing up Maya, who did not appreciate being divested of her own animal fun. We proceeded in this way up to the chickens, which lasted a little bit longer, probably since the wee things were caged and at Jordan's eye level.

Jordan did show remarkable patience while standing in the ten-mile Super One Lunch line while waiting for his limp steamed hot dog and wilted chips. He was equally enthusiastic about watching the crowds go by as he ate said hot dog lunch, while Maya was less so. One could say that Maya did not give a rat's ass about the Super One Lunch.

Then it was time for the rides. I would like here to interject that earlier that morning, the Starbucks man had advised us that the fair would create "some of the best memories of their lives". Note: their lives, not ours. And not when it came to the rides. First, there was the car ride, an uncomplicated affair that consisted of six glitter-metallic cars on posts going around on a circle. The thrill, presumably, was to spin the little steering wheel while traveling in a circle. Maya loved it.

Jordan, on the other hand, became convinced before the cars started moving that they would crash, and had to be removed.

Maya rode on the elephants. Up and down, in a gentle circuit, hanging on the the elephant steering wheel behind the the elephant head with obvious delight.

Jordan had to be extracted from the choo-choo merry-go-round mid-ride. I was lucky enough to hear someone say, "Did you see that kid? They should have never let him on the ride."

We were about to throw in the towel, still thirteen ride tickets in the black, when we saw the Jalopy ride. Jordan wanted it. Oh, did he ever want it. But only if we came with him.

That is how you could have seen a family of Mayberrys crushed into the Jalopy ride, tracks screeching, adult legs hanging out past the sign that said Keep Arms and Legs in Vehicle. Jordan was giddy with delight, narrating every twist of the landscape as we navigated the fifty-foot track. Maya spun her wheel like an expert. Scott and I tried to breathe through the cramps.

Then we left, exhausted and limp. I don't think iron pills are going to help.