Well, this really got my goat.
After withstanding numerous accidents in the house ranging from family photos being knocked off the wall [that was dad modeling great behavior] to lamps crashing to the floor, we have banned indoor throwing/pitching/catching/baseball/homerun derby. Wrestling has somehow made the cut because dad loves it as much as the boys, but when things start to resemble The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, it’s always me, the mean mom, who has to put the kay-bosh on the fun.
I’m so unreasonable, aren’t I? Waaaaayyyy too uptight.
My youngest son, who indeed thinks I’m the devil in a blue dress [make that shorts and flip-flops] because I’m the one making it harder for him to reach the status of Albert Pujols, decided that yesterday was retribution day.
According to key eye witnesses, while I was upstairs cleaning, he came tearing in the house like the terror that he is, and threw a ball into a burning candle.
I came downstairs and thought someone had spit their toothpaste on the wall–it was all drippy and clean-smelling and turquoise. Note exhibit A below:
My little angel is gladly pointing out how the drips extend well below the scope of the picture. We had to get a razor blade and remove half of our paint job scrape the wall delicately to get it off. We now have chunks of exposed drywall that resemble the shapes of Kentucky and The Bahamas, respectively [mind you, this is in our front foyer].
What’s a mom to do but turn it into a geography lesson?
We try to teach forgiveness here, and I think once you see exhibit B you’ll agree that his deep remorse is obvious.