In this house, you don't leave yourself open. It's much like being a boxer really. If you let your guard down you're bound to get hit.
I'm not talking about physical blows, although Boogie does have a mean right hook. No, I'm talking about those little mental slaps we all give each other. In the name of fun, of course. One of the things I love about my kids (trust me, there really are a lot of things) is that they're all smart-asses and we all give each other shit all the time.
Wren takes the brunt of a lot of it, though. I tried to tell him last night, it's his own fault. He leaves himself open ALL the time. Like the other day at the park when we were hanging out with all of his friends and two of them started wrestling. Wren said "Why does this remind me of gay porn?" My response? "Because you watch too much of it."
He left himself open. Set himself up for the blow.
Another example of the conversations in our house? Well, last night I was sitting at the table sewing. Katie and Hunter were watching me, much like they watch the television at the end of the day. Somehow I had become their entertainment. Wren was in the kitchen behind me making us all scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Mikaela went in there and was being weird. Here's how the conversation went:
Wren: You're just like your mother.
Mikaela: You're just like your mother.
Katie: You're not like your mother, Wren. Your mom is NICE!
Wren, glaring at Katie: Eat shit!
Me (continuing to pin fabric): She's about to.
Wren said for that statement, I didn't get any eggs. We were all too busy laughing to pay him much attention, though. And I told him, if he keeps leaving himself open he's going to keep getting knocked out.
Oh, and don't worry. I got eggs. And they didn't taste like shit either.