The estrogen ocean

This e-mail is from Aug. 22, 2008. In addition to our kids, our 9-year-old niece, Emma, was here, and so was Abbey's best friend, Elisabeth, who's 11.

Thank God we can’t have any more kids. There are several reasons. I just cooked 3 packs of hot dogs and 2 boxes of mac and cheese. I swear to you it was like a pack of wolves attacking an antelope. They are talking and shoveling food at the same time. I am not getting into the dishes that were used.
The next reason is that if we had more kids they would be girls. Here comes the soapbox section.
I am in a house with 4 pre-teen girls and the boy; two of these are not ours, but they are here. I have listened to fashion, which Jonas Brother is cutest, and something about it seems that Miley Cyrus is a little trashy these days. Conner is packing his stuff as we speak. The level of female hormones in this house is critically high. A truck just arrived with people in spacesuits to rope off the house. It’s like a scene from "ET." Duke Energy just called and would like to harness the hormones as alternative power for the city. I was just notified that our house is restricted airspace because of hormone glow. It is causing problems for Air Care and commuter flights.
Girls are nuts. They will run and play rough, and when someone gets hurt they are soft and compassionate. Boys will knock you on your butt and stand over you waiting for the next opportunity to knock you on your butt.
These girls don’t want to called kids; they’re pre-teens. Also, make sure that you say pre-teen with the exact amount of attitude. I liked it better when there were only two categories of people: adult and children. Now you can be an infant, baby, toddler, preschooler, pre-k, child, pre-teen, teenager, young adult, almost adult, adult, DINK, middle age, over the hill, retired, senior and finally old as an apostle. From this day forward you are a kid or an adult in this house. I realize that this mandate carries no weight, but I like the sound of my own voice sometimes.
I need to go. I just heard Conner yell for help. Mind you, I am not helping him. I am just going to watch them torture him. It’s his own damn fault. He put his head into the lion's mouth by getting too close. Typical pre-k mistake.