Maybe I should apply with the NFL

Every night after dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, I send out the cry for everyone to pack up what they're doing and head upstairs for bathtime. Two of the four boys thunder upstairs while the other two lag behind, nervously learning how to scale those same stairs with their parents following close behind.

Everyone converges on the master bathroom. Inevitably, Aaron and Noah are nearly undressed by the time we arrive with the twins.

Sometimes, they are snapping each other with towels; sometimes, they are smacking each others bottoms to see who can slap harder and leave the reddest handprint. They go to the bathroom together, trying to make their streams cross in a perfect "X," making a disaster of the toilet I just cleaned that morning.

Baths are run and showers are turned down because "Aaron, that is way too hot." I follow the trail of disaster, picking up strewn socks and underwear, shirts and boxer shorts.

If I'm lucky, I can capture a few minutes to fold laundry--white baseball pants that will need to be washed again to get rid of those grass stains and those special underwear that boys get to wear when they play sports.

If the shower still isn't turned down, I hear Aaron yelp as his father throws a cup of cold water over the shower door.

Towels are delivered to the dripping children, who run half-covered to their rooms for pajamas.

Some moms have master bathrooms that are their refuge...candles by the bathtub, luxurious bath products, soft rugs, and a bath pillow.

Not me. In fact, even saying I have a master bathroom is a stretch.

I have a locker room.