Wrestling

I'm terrible at wrestling. For the first thirty years of my life this wasn't a problem, but these days awesome wrestling skills are crucial for anyone who wants to spend time with my kids. The boys spend most of the day rolling around on the floor like tiger cubs while I helplessly shout from the sidelines, "Careful! Stop that! Come color with me!" When Billy gets home from work, he takes off his tie and dives into the jumble of arms and feet. Somehow he just knows what to do. I, on the other hand, don't have a clue.

Once or twice Charlie has convinced me to get in on the action. Instead of slipping gracefully into the match like Billy does, I once ended up sort of lifting Charlie off the floor and shaking him. It was awkward and really just annoyed him. The other times I've attempted to wrestle my instincts told me to caress boys' backs and run my fingers through their hair as they rolled by. As you might guess, the boys didn't like this, and I think it lowered my social standing in the household.

To make matters worse, I have no survival instinct. Billy is constantly annoyed by my inability to defend myself from the kids. For example, I often recline on the floor with my elbows supporting my weight, which, as Bill points out, leaves me totally defenseless when the boys round the corner at top speed and leap onto my chest and belly. Then, while they happily pummel me, I scream for help and wince instead of covering my soft spots. I panic. The little boys love it.

As Jimmy grows sturdier and his reflexes and technique improve, I'm beginning to grow numb to their roughhousing. Really, they're much less likely to hurt each other while wrestling (save the occasional face bite) than when they're playing alone. Popular games in our house include sledding down the front stairs on various objects, swinging pointy things around their heads, pretending to ice skate on wash cloths, and sprinting with sticks aimed directly at their eyeballs.

Besides, mothers of teenage and grown boys always insist that the wrestling never stops. So why fight it?

PS: The pictures, in order of appearance, are:
1) Charlie in time out. Is it wrong that I love when he does this?
2) The decor and favors from Charlie's "Friend Party". He thought up the party, made invitations, helped me bake muffins, assembled goody bags--with his own toys!--, drew and hung decorations, and led the guests in a game he made up called Glide and Seek. I'm so proud of Charlie's hosting skills.
3) Charlie and best buddy Thaddeus (and their little brothers) at Lake Murray. Even after seven months since living in the same town, they greet each other with bear hugs and play like they've never been apart. Their friendship warms my heart.