I got an e-mail today from a neighbor working in her yard. She just went inside for a few seconds to get a drink, and when she came back her wheelbarrow was gone. That’s the second wheelbarrow in a month that’s been stolen from my neighborhood.

Am I the only one who thinks that’s a strange item to steal? Is there a large black-market demand for wheelbarrows in this city? Are the folks attending March Madness downtown being approached near shady alleys by guys in trenchcoats who say, “Psst! Hey buddy, wanna buy a wheelbarrow?” Or, to think the best of my fellow man, could there have been two recent gardening emergencies that demandeded the immediate commandeering of a wheelbarrow?

What’s the cash value of a wheelbarrow? Maybe we should call the pawn shops and see if there’s a trend — a spike in hot wheelbarrows. We could set up a sting operation. I wonder if it’s the work of a single bandit or if stealing wheelbarrows has become a new gang-initiation ritual. There are so many possibilities….

I really don’t mean to make light of this situation. I would be ticked off if someone stole my wheelbarrow. But I still think it’s the strangest item I’ve ever heard of being stolen.

My wife is at a “Hearts at Home” conference this weekend in Bloomington. It’s like a mini-vacation for her. She gets to hang out with grown-ups, not carry a diaper bag, talk about grown-up things instead of trying to arbitrate tinker-toy disputes, and eat in restaurants without having to cut up anyone’s food for them.

Meanwhile, I’m watching the three little urchins for a couple of days (right now it’s nap time). It’s been fun spending time with the kids, but it never ceases to amaze me how much time is spent preparing meals and cleaning up after them. I think if I had to stay home all day every day, I would accomplish little more than feeding my children and cleaning the kitchen. How my wife accomplishes anything else is a mystery to me.

As kind of a corollary to that, I don’t know why my wife’s hands aren’t chapped, cracked, and bleeding most of the time. After doing dishes all day and constantly having to wash up after wiping noses, changing diapers, and cleaning up poopy bottoms, my hands are raw.

After listening to my 5-year-old chatterbox all day, I also understand why my wife wants to call me at work frequently to have an adult conversation. It reminds me of Dave Barry’s contention that becoming a parent makes you stupider. He gave this example:

Albert Einstein Shortly Before The Birth Of His Son: “To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms — this knowledge, this feeling, is at the center of true religiousness.”

Albert Einstein Shortly After The Birth Of His Son: “Daddy’s gonna EAT THESE WIDDLE TOES!”

With a 5-year-old, you get peppered with questions that seem to come out of nowhere: “If you go to jail, do you have to stay there forever?” “Do bugs think I’m a giant?” “Can I poke you with this tinkertoy?” After you answer a couple hundred of those questions, you long to hear a grown-up question, like “you wanna beer?”
Well, I never doubted for a second that my wife was superwoman, but my belief has been reinforced once again. I think I’ll take her out to dinner more often.

And, I hear footsteps… I fear nap time is over….

Thank goodness the grandparents have taken pity on me and offered to have the clan over for supper last night and tonight. One less meal to prepare.