Run Away Garden Hose

How many rules should be mentioned when a child holds a garden hose? 

Let's say, to keep it simple, one or two basic ones--and because of the literal nature of my children-I'll give them three.
#1. Do not spray your sister with the hose.
#2. Do not spray your brother with the hose.
#3. And do not spray the house.
And-where is fun to be found with such rules?  Recognized.  I modify.

Revised #1 & #2. "Do not spray your siblings in the face with the hose."
Revised #3. "Do not spray the windows of the house."
New #3.  "Do not spray Mommy," (I said two steps above the action on the patio with a magazine).

My ankles were wet, my feet slippery in yellow rubber flip-flops.  That was as far as I wanted it to go!  It was understood.

Dad left the Ultra Power III nozzle on to erase what is-to he and I-a drive way.  It is much more practical as a canvas for sidewalk chalk. A car just sits there all day, how 'unfun?' 

So, more rules apply since the hose has been transformed from a Sun-day drinking fountain to a Sunday night power-washer.

The power of it in the hands of my youngest is overwhelming, my three year old forgets his grip on the thing is control, and lets the water strong-arm him.
"Take hold! Take hold!"  The kids yell to their brother and yet he seems to be caught like a hero in a fierce storm.  His eyes blinking hard.  For the aggression of the water, he can hardly see.  And he's wrestling the hose like a sailor forcing a beast back to his 10,000 Leagues Under the...grass.

The phone rings.  He is safe, the crew captain (my six year old) has swooped in with first-born authority.  For his sake, I holler an addendum as I run into the house to get the phone.  "Do not spray your little brother.  Do not spray anyone in the ear!"

The two older ones are racing toward the power tool of choice for young'ens. The Garden Hose:  ultimate and absolute power, presidential power, Gatorade TV commercial-power!

I wet-foot shuffle across the hardwood, and while I say "hello" I am fixed on my foot-flop marks across the floor.   I stand on and tug a towel over them with toes as I listen with two ears: through the receiver, and to the open front door for my children.
I see the hose has taken to freedom and is flailing in the hands of my daughter and my boys are screaming like little girls running through the icy cascade.  Between their screams, it makes the them lose their breath.  All three have smiles frozen on their wet rosy faces.

I look for scrap paper to write a message and everyone of them, every scrap, has disappeared.  I write over two girls in bikinis on the magazine I had under my arm.  The towel still under my feet, I pause my soaking-up-foot-prints to jot.

"This afternoon, three o'clock.  Yes.  I'll pick it up at the local pharmacy, then."  I have to call the insurance company with a "code."  I write that across the magazine girl's stomach, draw in a tube-top over her plunging bathing suit.  "Okay. I got it.  Thank you, then.  Bye"

I hold on to the counter tops and surf like a toddler teaching her own feet.  I've soaked up most of the water and so retrace my visible steps to the front in time to see a serving of 'Niagara' fall through my front door.  I used my magazine girls to cover my face.  But, like their bikini's, it's done little good.  The hose is wild, all by itself, absolutely no one is to blame.  Right.  I stand in my wooden pool at the door and put the rest together.  My hiding oldest has dropped the hose and gone running.  My three-year-old baby is sporting a severe wedgie which has him smiling from ear to ear and cheek top to cheek bottom.  He's been ran in circles while getting sprayed in the Hawaiian-flower-clad butt. 
"Mommy!" someone says too happy to see me-soaked.  "We didn't spray anyone in the ear!" 
And before I shower them with praises for that, I need just a few more towels and a moment to see if Mommy can count all the way up to ten.