"Daddy time" usually takes place in the evening after dinner while I am washing the dishes. I literally have my back to what goes on the living room, but I have an idea of what goes on. It involves jumping and throwing. Oh, and I get to clean up after it's over. Pillows (lots of them), blankets, mostly just furniture disarray. My kids know or I am laying down the law so that they will "know" that games they play with Daddy are not games they play with Mommy. Why? Because I am the party police? No! Because I am weak of heart and stomach. Oh, yeah and add overly cautious to that and a hint of the fact that I am my mother's daughter. Tonight, just as "Daddy time" had gotten revved up, I got called in to supervise because Music Man had to duck out for a few. The craziness had just gotten underway and could not be easily undone.
I just had one hundred mini heart attacks. When Music Man returned, I tried to steady the butterflies and I simply said never again. He smiled and said, "Yeah, kids, let's go! They're fine - what's wrong with you?"
What's wrong with me? I am their mom - that's what's wrong with me? I don't do rough play - I just do dishes!
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