It was a busy afternoon, and midway through wiping fannies and nose, and scrubbing blueberry puke out of my couch cushions, I hear a wail of despair from the depths of the house.  Like a moose in the throes of childbirth, my son was lamenting the inconvenience of not checking for a backup roll before taking the throne.  Since my fourteen hands were already busy scrubbing, wiping and sanitizing, I called for backup.

My oldest girl mosied into action, stopping to check on the caterpillar and mak...