Little man found it hilarious, so I did it a few more times, with more emphasis on each successive shimmy. Then I let the donut just sit there on my noggin, and Levi took a couple steps closer to me, reached out...
...and full-on slapped me across the face. The donut fell.
I was so shocked that I couldn't catch myself from literally ROFL-ing. I told him "not for hitting" a couple times between cackles, but those pearls of wisdom probably didn't hit home.
Our upstairs loft area is slowly but surely transforming into a Gymboree, complete with toys and tunnels and all sorts of things to climb up on. You know, the same setup you would want for a pet hamster. A few months ago, little man started hurling items off of the second story and watching them crash down to the living room floor below.
Our upstairs loft area is slowly but surely transforming into a Gymboree, complete with toys and tunnels and all sorts of things to climb up on. You know, the same setup you would want for a pet hamster. A few months ago, little man started hurling items off of the second story and watching them crash down to the living room floor below.
My first reaction was the same as Tom Cruise’s at the end of
his greatest movie, Jerry Maguire. Nice
arm! But I didn’t want to reinforce the
bad behavior, so I tried (probably unsuccessfully) to hide my delight.
He has flung toys into the open abyss a few more times since
then, and he definitely knows it’s wrong at this point, but every time he acts
up, I’m quickly reminded that he could be much worse. He could be me.
Way back in the 90s, during one of my family’s trips to Hong
Kong, I remember my siblings and I were hanging out at my grandparents’
apartment. Now I can’t recall where my
parents were, but I do know that the adult supervision was lax, to say the
least. Of course, this could be because
I was at an age where I shouldn’t have needed Shawshank level security, but don’t
worry, nobody got physically hurt or anything.
My grandparents' place was 35+ stories high, so we did what any kids would do in that situation. We cracked open a window and started throwing stuff out to behold the power of gravity.
The adventure began with some folded paper airplanes, but we soon ran out of paper. There wasn't much just lying around the house that seemed all that disposable, so we started searching some drawers.
Next thing you know, we were throwing my grandma's underwear out the window. In the name of science, I suppose. It was glorious. We'd take turns tossing one out, get on our tiptoes to follow the flight path as far down as we could, then giggle with pure glee. Rinse, repeat.
We must have gone through at least a week and a half's worth of bum covers before we were finally caught red-handed. My poor grandma... we didn't think it was worth it to go down to ground level to look for the scattered undies, so they were probably lost forever. Except for maybe one pair that I remember had gotten caught on a clothesline a couple floors down, though I doubt ole G went down there to claim them.
I started out writing this as a parenthood-type post with a lesson to be learned at the end of the story, but now I can't stop chuckling at the visual of some unsuspecting passerby walking around, minding their own business, and then having their world go completely dark due to flying granny panties. This seems like a proper way to conclude.
My grandparents' place was 35+ stories high, so we did what any kids would do in that situation. We cracked open a window and started throwing stuff out to behold the power of gravity.
The adventure began with some folded paper airplanes, but we soon ran out of paper. There wasn't much just lying around the house that seemed all that disposable, so we started searching some drawers.
Next thing you know, we were throwing my grandma's underwear out the window. In the name of science, I suppose. It was glorious. We'd take turns tossing one out, get on our tiptoes to follow the flight path as far down as we could, then giggle with pure glee. Rinse, repeat.
We must have gone through at least a week and a half's worth of bum covers before we were finally caught red-handed. My poor grandma... we didn't think it was worth it to go down to ground level to look for the scattered undies, so they were probably lost forever. Except for maybe one pair that I remember had gotten caught on a clothesline a couple floors down, though I doubt ole G went down there to claim them.
I started out writing this as a parenthood-type post with a lesson to be learned at the end of the story, but now I can't stop chuckling at the visual of some unsuspecting passerby walking around, minding their own business, and then having their world go completely dark due to flying granny panties. This seems like a proper way to conclude.
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