I woke up this morning and my left arm was killing me. It still hurts. I suppose it’s a result of my getting old, or having three boys, or both. Last night before bedtime, I was down in the basement with all three of them, which I’ve found usually leaves me sore somewhere. Often in multiple places.
We were playing a game we like to call Balls of Fire. It basically consists of us whipping little sponge balls at each other across the room. You know the kind, little soccer ball looking baby toys with stuffing inside them. Weighty enough that you can really throw them fast, but soft enough not to hurt too bad if they nail you in the face. The only two rules in the game are:
1) Don’t hit your baby brother
2) Don’t hit the flat screen
Everything else is fair game. (I guess #3 would be don’t hit Mommy, but she’s smart enough not to venture down during our game!) Last year I tried playing the game with a couple of those old bean bag chairs but eventually Mommy got wind of it and we decided that it was getting out of hand. Instead of just getting hit with them like a ball, the things would engulf the boys from head to toe and bring them down…they loved it, but that’s for another post.
Most of our Balls of Fire game has me camped out on the far side of the room with the boys running back and forth across the other side, ducking and weaving from my missile throws (hence the sore arm). It used to be me just taking target practice on them, but as they’ve grown, so has their aim and bravery, and they’re starting to make me work for it. The boys added a fun twist that every time they got hit, they had to become a different Star Wars character. But you could only be ones with a gun, not a lightsaber…which started running thin so we moved to superhero characters.
Not to be left out, baby brother, nearly two, joined in the fun and started rattling off all the superhero names he knows (which is surprisingly many, but tends to always come back to “Hulk! Boom! Boom!”) He then runs around picking up the used ammunition balls and bringing them back to Daddy, yelling, “Baaa, Baaa.” (which is not his sheep imitation but rather his best attempt at saying “ball”)
The older two, realizing that I’m reloading, giddily shout to each other:
“Daddy has no balls! Daddy has no balls!”
Which makes me laugh because they’re young enough that they have no idea why I think what they’re saying is so funny. Good times.