Heidi's health class was given the world's dumbest assignment.  For three weeks each student was to carry a 10-pound bag of sugar around everywhere he went.  The sugar represented a baby.  The exercise was to teach the young people what it's like to have the responsibility of a baby 24 hours a day.

The kids were to tend the baby, protect it from kidnappers, pay a babysitter when they couldn't care for it personally, wake up every three hours for three consecutive nights to tend to it, and keep a journal each day on what they'd learned.

It was an incredibly dumb idea.  I had to hold myself back from having a session with the teacher and telling her so.

Margie pointed out that most kids today have no idea what a baby is like.  They grow up in a two-child family where both children are the same age, and never experience having little brothers and sisters and babies in the house.

Margie and I graduated from high school 28 and 29 years ago.  Nearly all of our classmates are now without children in the home.  They had one or two or three children (if they stayed married), raised them, and have now sent them off on their own.

We have sent three out into the world, too.  But we still have six at home, including a five-year-old in kindergarten.

I guess we're unique.  I've always thought of us as being really ordinary people, but from other peoples' perspectives I suppose we look pretty different—maybe pretty strange.

Let me tell you how it is.

Seb is the friend of Aaron, age 14.  Seb lives with his dad.  There are just the two of them.  Seb is often alone.

Seb asked Aaron if he could spend the night with us.  Seb spent the weekend.  And the next.  Seb would move in and become a permanent resident if he could.

"It's so fun here!  There's so much to do," Seb says, excitedly.

There is, indeed lots to do here.  With so many fertile minds at work there are always several good ideas for activities waiting in the wings while the current one is being carried out.

Our house is not quiet.  Our house is not clean and orderly except briefly.  The forces can be mustered to clean the living room, and it can be done with lightning speed; but several minutes later it looks lived in again.  It will have endured an Indian ambush, collected three pairs of tennis shoes and numerous books and crayons, and currently be being used as a dance floor for practicing cheerleaders while a bear cave is being constructed out of blankets and furniture in the corner.

It's a game for one boy to hide in the living room with his bow and suction-tipped arrows.  Another boy suddenly runs through the room dodging between practicing cheerleaders while trying to reach the kitchen without being hit by an arrow.

This game goes on for quite some time with kids trading positions.  It usually ends with an injury when someone runs into a piece of furniture or into a cheerleader.  In the case of the latter collision it's the cheerleader who ends the game.  In the case of a collision with a piece of furniture it's always the other guy's fault.  The ensuing squabble makes it impossible for the game to continue.

The uninjured participant looks about for something else to do.  His eyes quickly light upon the bear cave housing a younger brother and sister.  The bear cave immediately erupts with screams and squeals as it's invaded by a newcomer bear.  The fracas is quickly joined by the injured Indian, tribal quarrels being forgotten, and the Indian battle and bear cave evolve into a full-scale rodeo complete with bucking broncs, riders, and calf ropers.

Margie was the last of five children.  Her older brothers and sisters were, therefore, pretty well gone from home or too mature for games as she was growing up.  Her friend came from a large family.  Margie would say, "Let's go over to your house.  There's always something going on over there."

"No," her friend would reply.  "Let's go to your house where it's quiet!"

Quiet is hard for our house to be.  Being alone is equally hard unless one shuts himself in his bedroom.  The sounds of boisterous activity and teenagers' radios still filter in.

Perhaps that is why Matt built his house in the back yard.  It started out as a senior project.  Each senior was to learn a new skill, do something he'd never done before, and report on what he'd accomplished.

Matt's house started out to be a shop on skids so that it could be moved later.  It went together so nicely, though, that it looked too good to have interior walls of plywood, so it got sheetrocked instead.  The plywood floor looked tacky next to the sheetrocked walls, so linoleum was laid.  He painted it, wired it, and plugged it into a long, heavy-duty extension cord.  He moved his bed, desk and chest of drawers in, and installed a one-way monitor.  When the monitor was on, he could be called to dinner or to the telephone.  When he wanted perfect peace and quiet, he simply shut the monitor off.

He had the best of both worlds.  He had all the commotion and fellowship of family life that he wanted on one hand, and all the peace and quiet he could stand on the other.  He could turn them on and shut them off at will.