<p>We conducted a Doughnut Dash not long ago. Our goal was to hit as many doughnut shops as possible and find the best doughnuts in town.</p>
<p>It was a worthy Saturday morning endeavor, although the dash part of the Doughnut Dash was a misnomer. We had five little ones in tow. You don’t dash anywhere when passengers require car seats with five-point harnesses, booster seats and stubborn seat belts.</p>
<p>Our mission was noble, but overly ambitious. We made a total of two stops, which was probably one too many.</p>
<p>The kids are at an age where they talk a lot — all of them, all at the same time.</p>
<p>We are driving along when a 4-year-old yells, “Hey! I know where we are. This is where the policeman stopped my mom!”</p>
<p>“Is that so?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Yes. But we’re not going to tell Dad about it!”</p>
<p>We reach our destination and unload like clowns bursting out of a phone booth.</p>
<p>They scramble to the counter and begin placing their orders. Sprinkles — any and everything with sprinkles. If there are doughnuts that are nothing but sprinkles, we’ll take those, too.</p>
<p>Wolfing them down, one announces, “I made a card for Mommy with a heart that says, ‘I love you.’ Mommy says it is so special she is going to save it forever.”</p>
<p>“Wow!” exclaims her older sister with sprinkles plastered to her face. “She usually trashes everything I make.”</p>
<p>“I need to use the restroom,” announces another. “My hands are sticky.”</p>
<p>Five kids parade to the restroom to wash their sticky hands, each returning with clean hands only to re-engage sticky doughnuts.</p>
<p>“THESE ARE THE BEST!” one of them yells. She is loud because she is the youngest of three and must be loud to be heard.</p>
<p>The staff behind the counter hears her, smiles and nods approvingly.</p>
<p>“YOU KNOW WHY THESE ARE SO GOOD?” she asks.</p>
<p>The staff leans in. “BECAUSE THIS NEW STORE IS CLEANER THAN THEIR OTHER STORE!”</p>
<p>“Keep your voice down,” I whisper.</p>
<p>“OK!” she shouts. “BUT IT IS, GRANDMA. IT’S BIGGER AND WAY CLEANER!”</p>
<p>“Look at my arms,” shouts one of the girls.</p>
<p>“What about them?”</p>
<p>“They’re HAIRY! I think I’m turning into Daddy.”</p>
<p>Laughter explodes, the table rocks and napkins fly as everyone compares arm hair.</p>
<p>“I have long legs like Daddy,” another says.</p>
<p>“Dancers have long legs,” says another.</p>
<p>“You know what I’m going to be when I grow up?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“A Rockette.”</p>
<p>A couple stops by to comment on how well behaved the girls are. The table begins bouncing as the soon-to-be Rockette warms up her high-kicks from below.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” I say. “It’s still early.”</p>
<p>The husband begins reading coffee selections aloud from the menu.</p>
<p>“Dark Roast Caribou—”</p>
<p>They are wiggling and giggling, an uncontainable mass of life, motion and energy. Sprinkles ricochet off the table in every direction.</p>
<p>“Dream Bean Coffee—” he continues. There’s now a kid on his lap, another one draped around his neck and he has sprinkles in his hair.</p>
<p>“Look at that last coffee,” he said. “It’s called Jamaican Me Crazy”</p>
<p>“HEY! THAT’S WHAT MY MOM SAYS EVERY DAY!”</p>
