There are several things I would change about my house, given the opportunity to do so, but our family room is pretty large with high ceilings, and we all love it. We purposely have a decent portion of the room empty so Amelia can run around, pull out all 3,000 Lego blocks at once, or do whatever else requires lots of space. Last night, things took an inevitable yet still shocking turn.
Somebody (I’m not naming names, but it starts with a “D” and rhymes with “caddy”) thought it would be an excellent idea for Amelia and him to play baseball with a 12” beach ball and a junk ball bat. What could go wrong? Let me tell you. I barely escaped with my life. I had no idea a beach ball could take off like a rocket. Despite this game being one of the worst ideas ever, I couldn’t bring myself to be the bad guy and demand the two of them stop the shenanigans. My daughter was giggling like she was two years old, and the lamps have some years on them anyhow, so instead of continuing to protest, I hid behind my iPad, shrieking. Then I found out the whimpering that accompanied my abject horror was making the game more fun. Yay!
Maybe Mrs. Brady got it wrong, and it’s ok to play ball in the house. Perhaps it’s worth it to see your little girl giggle like a hyena while you hide behind your tablet, marveling that you somehow remain intact. Sure, the wood cabinet with the glass doors got a bit more beat up, and the TV took a few hits, but it’s all in fun. Of course, last night might have also been the exception that proves the rule. I can’t wait for tonight—indoor croquet suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched.