My three boys love to wrestle with their Dad, but they each have their own style.
The oldest laughs gleefully while getting playfully beaten up.
The skinny middle child, who hates to be tickled and has no fat to soften the pains of a good wrestling match, usually ends up crying.
The five year old fights the hardest, as if he believes he can beat a guy who weighs 130 pounds more than he does. In one recent wrestling match, clearly headed for another loss, he shouted:
“Nice try, small fry!”
After disappointing defeats to their Dad last night at ping-pong, the boys woke up at 6am to spend their Sunday morning slamming ping-pong balls against the living room wall adjacent to one of my favorite paintings.
As I worried that an orange plastic ball might put a hole through the smoky background, the nine year old mused:
“If Star [our dog] were a person, I bet she’d be really good at ping-pong.”
He did not voice his next thought, which i know was:
“…and we’d beat Dad!”
Heard in our kitchen this morning:
“You can’t catch with a piece of bread in your hand. That’s just a bit of wisdom from your Dad.”