"That throw came very close to hitting this lamp or knocking over my lemonade. What's a better idea than throwing a ball in the house?" I ask. I'll take rolling the ball, playing outside, or finding something less annoying to do. Alas, their five-year-old brains do not work that way. What's better than throwing a ball?
"KICKING!" Emmie shouts, and before I can yell "noooo..." in slow motion, the ball rockets off her foot, hits the ceiling fan, ricochets off the blades and hits... my lemonade. I squawk. They freeze. A heartbeat of silence. Then I whip my Angry Face towards them...
... and they scatter! They haul ass in a coordinated flanking maneuver that would have made Sun Tzu proud. One goes right, through the office. One goes left, through the kitchen. The back door slams. I am alone...
... with my laughter.
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