The first of the spring sunshine is finally warming the Pickwickian abode, and every year, the children become immediately convinced that I have spent the winter thinking up unique forms of childhood torture to break out upon the first daffodil sighting. I always deny the charges vehemently, but to you, my dear readers, I feel I must own the truth.

Yes, children, I do actually in very fact lie awake at night dreaming up novel plans for your misery. I jot down my ideas in a secret notebook, and that’s how I am always ready to greet you like the birds in the morning with the day’s outline of sheer torment.

However, I am losing sleep over trying to come up with fresh ideas, so I thought I would share a few of my little stratagems for the persecution of otherwise perfectly happy Pickwicks, in the hopes that others might contribute some of their own ideas for inflicting anguish on children in the spring:

“I am sorry, but it is indeed a beautiful Monday morning, so schoolwork does still have to happen. You may take your math to the hammock, but you do have to do it before play.” (Distraught home-schooled children of cold-hearted mothers who attended public school for 13 springs find it rather difficult to elicit much sympathy sometimes.)

“Lunch is ready! I know you already ate 4 cheerios on your way out the door and there are a lot of chives coming up in the garden, but it is 2:00 now. Just take this sandwich and carry it around with you while you play. It will make me feel better. Yes, you are as beautiful as a flower but I do not think you can photosynthesize.” (Science for the day: check)

I did not cause rain to cease, and have shown a similar reluctance to dispel thunder and lighting.

“I am glad you are fond of the neighbors. But you can not construct a canal in their yard.”

We have not installed a full bathroom in the backyard, resulting in an inevitable 45 seconds that must be spent in the house every couple of hours.

I declined to adopt the sleeping opossum on the side of our road as a pet.

No sister is permitted to tether (or otherwise fasten by rope, scarf, belt, hair ribbons, or any other means) any other sister to any stationary or moving object under any circumstances. Even if it is fun.

I won’t allow Baby P to chase traffic naked.

Structures made of old sheets and jump ropes are permissible and even encouraged, however, any structure requiring a permit from the city or the use of Fr Pickwick’s table saw or other power tools are strictly forbidden.

There are bees and spiders.

I have also invented a complicated and completely arbitrary set of clothing recommendations. It is the hard work of years of forethought and comes from a deep desire to ruin my children’s lives, establish perfect tyranny over their wardrobe choices, and eventually effect world domination:

• New white church socks are not for mud puddles
• Floor length princess dresses do not work well in combination with bicycles
• Dress-up hats that cover your eyes may cause unfortunate contact with trees or sisters
• Fairy wings made of scarves and hair elastics do not make a Pickwick of any size capable of flight
• Pajamas, as a general practice, do not go outside
• Shoes are advisable if you plan to play in a pile of pine needles
• Dress-up accessories, sweaters, shoes, aprons, etc. are optional and removable based on weather conditions and current play requirements. Underwear is not.
• And my magnum opus: “If it should fall below 50℉ and one feels chilly, one wears a sweater over the bathing suit. If it is above 75℉ and one is hot, one removes the fur lined cape and mittens.” The subtle intricacy of this is extremely difficult to master and has resulted in years of confused children and millions of complaints and tears, entirely unanswerable by any form of logic whatsoever.

Finally, with the express intention of ruining their whole day and entire life, past, present, and future, I call them in when it is dark, the dew is falling, and their lips are blue. I feed them, bathe them, and carry them to bed because they fell asleep on the stairs. (Any child can tell you that’s merely evidence of how incredibly not-at-all-tired-yet they were.)