Did you ever sit back and watch a couple of bear cubs rolling around on the ground tossing each other all over the dried leaves and broken sticks appearing as though they didn’t have a care in the world? I’m doing that exact thing, except they aren’t bear cubs, they’re my kids and they’re landing on toy cars and dog hair instead of leaves and sticks. I wish I could bottle the joy they get out of this, it would be more popular than crack, because the only downside is the exhaustion that eventually takes over and if you want more you don’t have to perform lewd acts or sell your parents’ iPod to get it because it just comes naturally.
They’ve been tackling each other on the kitchen floor for the past fifteen minutes taking the occasional break for me to kiss their latest boo-boo. Sometimes I can just blow them a kiss from across the room to keep the interruption to a minimum. I think the score is pretty even on who hurt who. This keeps my job as part-time moderator easier, because I don’t have to discipline one more than the other. The discipline hasn’t consisted of anything more than “Don’t hit your sister/brother” or “You’re squashing your sister/brother” and the occasional ruler across the knuckles.
I think that I get as much out of this as them, and I finally get to sit down. It makes me proud to know that my offspring doesn’t mind the occasional eye gouge, head bang, and knee in the back. It will prepare them for life and possibly for a career in the WWE. What father hasn’t wished their daughter could be a scantily clad wrestling diva or that their son might wear tiny little skivvies for a living? Yew (times two)! Whatever this leads to is irrelevant as long they wear each other out enough to let me stay on my keester a little while longer.
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