Oops.

Yesterday, I drag the menagerie to the post office with clear directions: no singing, no touching other people, no running, only whisper. Be as quiet as you would in the grown-up portion of the library.

All the children agree to this, but because I did not specify, Charlie brings in his three-foot-long sword composed of foam insulation tubes and duct tape.

Despite instructions ad nauseum about appropriate venues for swordplay and repeated reminders that you only attack someone if they, too, have a sword, the boy child sees fit to, well, go postal.

There's a back-up plan for swords in non-sword places and that is his scabbard, or shoved down the back of his shirt. He wears it this way so frequently that he can put it down the neckhole of his shirt himself and will walk around that way completely unaware of his presence.

I think so little of seeing a hilt behind his head these days that I do not realize it is there until 7/8 of the trip home, when he informs me that, "This sword makes my car seat not so cozy."

No wonder those straps seemed more snug than usual.