The kids and I exercise before school each day – situps, jumping jacks, that sort of thing. Their mom says it helps focus them for the day. I think she’s just trying to get me to exercise.
After breakfast this morning, as we were stretching, C announced that he was going to be the teacher. That was fine with me. His little brother, however, kicked the floor and wandered off.
I herded him back and we started doing our stretches. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the little guy drift under the counter in the kitchen. Our counter juts out over the cabinets beneath it, forming a sort of bar across from the kitchen sink. It’s only about two inches higher than the little guys’ head.
“Watch your head!” I called out.
“No!” he grumped at me.
I tried to pull him out from under the counter. He grumped again, and pushed me away.
When his brother and I started the jumping jacks, I tried again. “Watch your head!”
He grumped again, turning away. Then his brother switched to hopping.
“Watch -” I started to shout, but it was too late. The little guy loves to hop, and he had already started. His legs launched him off the ground, smacking the top of his head into the bottom of the counter with a resounding thunk. He fell back to his feet, stunned.
Then he started crying. I rushed over to give him a hug and his wails intensified.
“Ooh,” I said. “That must have really hurt.”
“Yeah,” he sniffed. “It really hurts.”
I did not say “maybe next time you’ll listen to daddy.” I may have thought it awfully loudly, but I didn’t say it.