Grama got the kids an air hockey table for Christmas. It was broken when we took it out of the box, but my genius husband has glued, nailed, and rigged it so that the broken side panel is attached. It ain't pretty, but it works. Of course, this thing was supposed to go out back in the workshop. Instead it's sitting in the floor of the bonus room, sans legs. We didn't want Seven to play with it outside because, even though we have space heaters in the workshop, it's still warmer in here. And I can play whenever the mood strikes me, even if I'm in my pajamas. But soon, soon I tell you, it's going out to the workshop so I can get some work done again.
By the way, Seven said words that are magic to my ears this morning: "Mommy, I'm feeling much better today." Go amoxicillan! Fight those strep germs!
Anyway, our home has become the air hockey battleground of the universe. My right arm aches as I type this from playing a few too many games yesterday. I play Seven left-handed to level the playing field and give him a chance, but with Ten I'm right-handed all the way. I have to bring out the big guns to play him. He's an air hockey maniac.
After one particularly memorable game yesterday-- memorable only because Dan beat me, which almost never happens and it was only by ONE LOUSY POINT-- Dan was taunting me, saying, "Who wants to play the loser? Who wants to play the loser?"
Seven said, "I will! I will! I want to play the los-- uh, I will play against Mommy. You're not a loser, Mommy."