The twins celebrated a birthday. Mom (other wise known as Oh-my) thought air powered rockets were a fantastic idea. One for each. Can't leave one unarmed. At first, it was going just great. The boys would run around outside, stomp their hardest on the rocket launcher, and with a mighty POP it would jet for the sky.
Then it got cold. Boys were unwilling to spend much time outside. Which means inside became a war zone. Cereal and popcorn were found in places they were never meant to travel. Shoes, socks (did I mention it was cold?) were strewn about with careless abandon.
Then I hear it. POP. Seriously? In the house?
Wasn't it going to crash into the ceiling?
No, not if you are targeting a brother. With one brother aiming the device, and another applying the pressure to launch the foam target, they were busting through the house, waging war on all they encountered.
This included dogs, brothers, furniture and moms. As I write this, there is a mighty POP and I feel the rocket hit me in the tush. Gales of laughter. A fight over launching rights. POP. That one hit me in the back at close range. That'll leave a mark. I turn and grab my camera to capture evidence.
That is my camera getting hit. Nice. I decided to switch to video.
As you can see, the toy is being used in a manner wholly inappropriate with the instructions and designs. You can also see that the dogs are totally un-phased by the activity, or being in the line of fire. When I later called for help, I was put on hold:
Nap time being so very, very important. Every since the kids took over feeding them, and they now sleep in the girl's room, they no longer feel the need to defend me against the children. They know where their bread's buttered.
So feeling much abused, ignored and battered, I called a cease fire in the only way I know how: WHO WANTS LUNCH?
And how was your day?
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