Mrs Ipsa and the boy spent Thanksgiving at the grandparents. The boy learned a fun new game at the wife's folks house. Grandma and Grandpa have a finished basement. They keep their shoes at the top of the stairs. The boy learned that if he throws the shoes from the top of the stairs, he can make them go a long way. So he pitches the shoes and watches them fall down the stairs, then he laughs. This is great fun.
Grandfathers, are not made up of atoms, they consist entirely of sub-atomic anti-discipline particles. This molecular anomaly causes them to encourage behavior they would have paddled their own children for engaging in. According to second hand accounts, when the boy threw the boots and shoes downstairs and giggled, grandpa rushed to pick up the formerly air born items and place them within easy grasp for relaunching. This was so entertaining and addicting a past time that my father-in-law is now encouraging other family members to chuck stuff for him to chase. I'm not looking forward to explaining to the boy that its his fault grandpa is a Labrador Retriever.
The lad returned form Thanksgiving very keen on playing "the game". We don't keep our shoes by the stairs. Bummer for the boy. Youth is blessed with endless imagination. My son, being a very bright and resourceful boy, discovered that if he tried real hard, he could imagine that the tin cans in the pantry were shoes. He launched them downstairs with great enthusiasm. So great was his zeal that he almost got the glass jars, including the one filled with honey, air born.
At that point, Daddy, aka, Father Kill Joy, put the breaks on "the game". I must of said some less than understanding things to the Wife, about watching the kid, closing pantry doors, etc. She informed me that all male children under the age of 42 years, are capable of creating havoc in less than point 3 nano-seconds. Apparently its also my fault her father taught the boy "the game". To redeem myself, I made the nearly ultimate sacrifice. I went into K-Mart during the pre-Christmas shopping season. The Ultimate Sacrifice being of course, going into Wal Mart.
I was focused, a man on a mission. Fighting throngs of blue haired women, I made it to the relative peaceful sporting goods section of the store. Diligently I sought out my quarry. I found them, bright yellow, somewhat bouncy, made in China to a quality standard that no self respecting player would ever use, tennis balls. I dashed to the checkout.
We have a new game now. Toss the tennis balls is very popular at the Ipsa household. The boy tosses the balls downstairs, giggles and daddy tosses them back. We're branching out into more advanced levels of the game. The other night we played toss with mommy. We sat on the couch and mommy sat on the floor and played catch. Some balls rolled under the couch. Mommy reached under to fetch them out. The boy chucked a ball and beaned mommy on the head. He laughed like that was the funnest thing he ever saw.
I stopped myself before I asked her if she'd still rather be playing "the game" with number 9 cans.