I rake the leaves. Then the kids find them.

Every October the yard decides to drop everything at once. Not gradually. Not politely. Just a full dump of leaves that look like they were waiting for me to finish breakfast.

I tell myself I'll do a little each day. That is a lie I tell every year. What actually happens is I look outside on a Saturday, decide I've had enough, and go get the rake.

My 6-year-old daughter asks if she can help. She means it for about forty seconds. Then she is "building a nest" for her stuffed animals. My 3-year-old son does not ask. He just appears in the middle of the pile the second it gets big enough to jump in.

I rake. They un-rake. This is the system.

I used to get mad about it. Not big mad. Quiet mad. The kind where you keep raking harder like the leaves will respect your effort. They do not. Leaves have no respect.

Now I plan for it. I make one pile they are allowed to destroy, and one pile I pretend they cannot see. The pretend pile lasts longer. Barely.

There is also the leaf in the hoodie hood. The leaf in the shoe. The leaf that somehow ends up in the car and stays there until spring. Fall does not stay outside just because you asked nicely.

The only upgrade that actually helps is a couple of those little kid rakes, so they feel like they are working while I do the real rows. They still jump in the pile. But for a minute they look official.

Finally the bags are lined up at the curb. I stand there for a second, sweaty and a little proud. Real stripes in the grass. A yard that looks like an adult lives here.

Then I hear a crunch behind me.

My son has found the one bag I didn't tie yet. He is already elbow deep, and my daughter is running over with her stuffed animals because apparently the nest is moving.

So I untie the bag. Dump it out. Round two.

The yard can look nice in November.