Do you have a minute?

A ball of furious one year old and two year old rolled past me, both death-gripping the handle of a cheap rolling backpack I found at a consignment sale. They are rolling through, under, over, and by a few thousand dollar's of Toys R Us' finest, but when it comes to one really wanting to play with one toy, it's game on. No other toy will do. So this minute it's the $3 used back pack with Diego and Baby Jaguar smiling on them as they scream, scratch, and howl, making the WWE look like a pack of wussies.

Just short of cracking a chair over Xander's head, Zoe let up to grab her baby brother's prized possession,  a dollar store foam sword. She wacked him, he swung the backpack at her, and they both screamed and tried to get the other's toy - without giving up an inch of the one they clasped in their sweaty paws.

The Wonder Pets sang about Teamwork in the background, dog howled as a beagle trotted down the side walk (seriously, can dogs be breedist?) and the phone rang from somewhere under a couch cushion... or the basement stairs?

"BE QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIET!" I shouted as I brought the phone (on it's fifth, and last, ring) to my ear.

"Pardon?" came a gruff voice on the other end.

"Not you, the kids. Who's speaking?"

"Detective Man."

"Oh, sure. I was hoping you'd call. Any news?"

"We need to ask you a few more questions about the events Saturday evening."

"Okay. Did the other Detective fill you in?"

"Mmmm Hmmm." And so came a round of at least 20 mundane questions I've answered to six, seven different officers in the past week.

While I tried to stay on track Xander started up the stairs, something he just now mastered, pulling up the now jam-packed with a helicopter, little people farm, and various plastic toys we've accumulated from way too many happy meals backpack. He was tottering on Step #5, trying to use those baby muscles and about to lose the fight to opponent Gravity. Zoe was also closing in on the backpack with her plastic Big Bertha her grandparents thought she'd enjoy. They were right. She did enjoy it. Just not to hit plastic golf balls. She loved to use it as a mallet to hit babies on the head/back/stomach when they least expect it, the big screen TV when pretending to play baseball, and the back of my head when I would sit on the floor to pick up toys.

Maybe I responded with a few too many "Sure. Yep. Sounds right!" because Detective Man stopped and asked, "Are you listening to me?"

An emphatic YES - maybe too emphatic - came from my end as I heard a whack and two 20-something pounders come tumbling down the stairs.

"I will call again, Mrs. at a better time." grumbled Detective Man. The phone went dead in my ears as I realized Detective Man did not get his job by enjoying a good sense of humor or by oozing charm.

"Talk to you when they are both in school full time." I replied with an exasperated chuckle, checking for broken bones in a pile of human and plastic debris, to the "hang up, dumb ass!" tone crackling in my ear.