I feel like such a shit.

Please let me explain.

 For whatever reason, maybe the pool, the trampoline, or the overabundant video games, my house seems to have become the cool hangout place for kids under the age of twelve.

I have one in that age group.  He's a gregarious child; he collects friends so easily that I sometimes wonder if he has some magical aura surrounding him that only children can see.  I'm glad of that.  Most of the time.  Sometimes it's a curse, not for him, but for me.  I'm the stay-at-home mom who deals with the mysterious migration of children to our home every summer.  The swallows of San Juan Capistrano have nothing on these kids.

Today is his birthday, and although the official birthday party was Sunday, I still have a leftover crowd of four extra boys sitting on the floor in my living room at the moment.  Leftover from two days ago.  Their attention is fixed on the big screen television, where Mickey, Donald, Goofy and assorted other cartoon characters are busy fighting bad guys for some goal that has been explained to me numerous times, but that I still fail to understand.  They're playing Kingdom of Hearts on the Playstation.  On the same big screen television that I have not been able to use since summer started.

They're loud.

Every glass in my house is dirty, even though the dishwasher is running as I type this, every towel has been washed at least twice since Friday, the last speck of anything even resembling a snack was devoured by Sunday, and I'm running out of kool-aid.  Thank heavens my 20-year-old is home from college for a bit, or I would be left hairless and shaking, resembling one of those ugly little yappy dogs.

 I generally like kids.  I do.  I keep saying that over and over again, but I don't think it's helping.

I want them gone.  Even mine...just for a couple of hours. 

If you don't hear from me by tomorrow morning, send help.