Armed and Dangerous

"I change by not changing at all." - Pearl Jam

There is no denying that I am an overgrown child. Immature, silly, and easily distracted. I hear but rarely listen. It happens so much My Director often makes me repeat what she just said. And heaven forbid if I forget something, even after I've repeated it for her. She won't tell me what it was. I say, her loss.

But I admit: I am a frustrating, unstoppable, often unbearable, large child. And sprinkle a little bit of moody on top just for good measure. Sometimes she learns this the hard way. And sometimes those lessons are painful.

Take the other night, for instance. Peanut loves our pre-bedtime play frenzies because I usually let her run wild to blow off the remainder of her steam. She climbs me like a jungle gym. We hurl stuffed animals at each other like fake grenades. Play hide-and-seek, where I refuse to come out until she's just about to find me after an exhaustive search and I scare the bejeebus out of her. I throw her on the bed and tickle her into submission until she pleads for mercy. But this night, a new weapon was introduced. And My Director got caught in the crossfire. Twice.

My Ridiculous Weapon

Introducing, the Shooter Dog, a "gun" that shoots hard foam balls from the dog's mouth when you squeeze its belly. For some reason, Santa (My Director) thought this would make a cute stocking stuffer. Even though someone (yours truly) still considered it a gun of sorts and we're not crazy about toy guns of any sort. (I support your Second Amendment rights. I just don't exercise mine. Go ahead and judge, but that's another blog post.)

Peanut finds this thing hysterical. And so do I. The problem is, I am incapable of giving anything less than 100% when using the Shooter Dog. Because I am a child. I am a boy and boys like to shoot things. Boys think it's funny when you say "Ow!"

So as Peanut and I wrestled on her bedroom floor and I managed to seize possession of the Shooter Dog, I had her in my crosshairs. Locked and loaded. Then the warnings My Director gave as we began playing flashed through my hazy memory. Something about not shoving the ball all the way in. Something else about not squeezing too hard. Something about those two things making the ball hurtle at warp speed toward your supposed loved ones, blistering them in an instant. But that just makes me want to do it more.

So I shoved that ball as far as it would go, and I squeezed as hard as I could. Taking My Director's warnings into consideration, I quickly shifted my aim away from Peanut. Now I'm targeting My Director's legs. She was sitting, crossed-legged on the chair in the bedroom, directing of course. But a sneak attack from Luna threw off my aim. I shot high and hit her glasses.

I'm dangerous

Then I started laughing. Hysterically. Gut-wrenching, belly-aching, wheezing, coughing, drooling, tear-stained laughter. My Director, forever my straight man, her glasses now askew from my unprovoked, surprise attack, was even holding back laughter herself. Peanut laughed too. Not a great moment in parenting history, mind you.

In hindsight, I should not have laughed, let alone laughed as hard as I did. But funny is funny and this was funny. Nor should I have done it again. That's right. Another full-force, ball-in-the-mouth, tummy-squeezing shot that hit My Director directly in her right cheek. Now she's pissed and storming off to our bedroom.

Now Peanut is stomping right behind her, slamming the door, telling me how naughty I am. And I am sorry... truly. Sorry that I didn't listen to her. Sorry that I hurt her. And sorry that Peanut witnessed it all.

Sometimes I can't help myself. I play to win, and I play hard. Shouldn't My Director know that? Yes, she should. And she does. That's why she took the Shooter Dog away from me until I prove to her I can play with it responsibly.