where’s the banana peel?

My son and his dad play rougher than he and I do.  There are elaborate “Hop on Pop” reenactments involved and piggy back rides, and strange “bump” games.  I am not into that.

Today, however, motherhood has become a contact sport.  At the blissfully warm (87 degrees!) pool at the downtown Y, w. chucked a smiling plastic figure across the pool.  Somehow, the laser guided capabilities of this little missile were turned on, and it locked onto my cheekbone as a target.  My teeth still hurt.

Later, as we tried to find an appropriate “fire rescue video” on youtube, he jumped onto my lap hitting the bottom of my jaw and causing me to bite my own tongue.  Come on, man.

Thirty minutes later, he comes bounding over to me to show me something and stomps on my toe.  What the….?

None of this was deliberate or in the least premeditated; it is just the result of a little guy becoming physically active and not quite aware of his surroundings. Tomorrow it will be someone else’s turn (preferably Pop) to bear the brunt of the preschooler assault. kinder-0092

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