My Son, the Boy


I thought my days of getting my fingers beaten to a pulp while playing swords was over. No, because I have a boy that is definitely a boy. Where did my son come up with playing swords? Honesty, I’m not sure. I think it’s one of those things that are ingrained in virtually every boy, such as liking trains and trucks (which is a story for another time).

I remember the days of playing swords with my brother…who didn’t show that much mercy to my fingers (thanks, bro). Below is a picture of what my son and I used to play swords this morning:

photo (3)

You had best believe that I took the actual sword. Don’t look at me like that, I wasn’t whacking at my son’s fingers. He was whacking at mine! Somehow, just like his uncle, he still managed to hit my fingers despite my best attempt at shielding them. Of course.

Le sigh. I have another decade at least of that happening to me. Hmm, I think I may invest in a pair of padded gloves. Yeah, some padded gloves….and a face mask. Go to my happy place.



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