Rickety

Last night, the boys and I got some frisbee time in before bed.

For us, frisbee is all about the number of consecutive catches. We form a triangle and throw the disc back and forth, keeping track of how many successful catches we have. The boys are still learning, and my throws have never been particularly accurate, so this seemingly simple exercise is actually quite challenging.

As always, things got pretty silly as we played. At one point, I tossed the frisbee to my seven-year old and he just waved his hand and giggled as it went by.

“Oh, come on!” I said. “You could have caught that.”

“It was too low.” He said, putting his hand at thigh-height. “It was way down here.”

“So? You’re not a tree. You can bend your knees. I have to bend my knees all the time to catch ’em.”

“Yeah,” his older brother shouted. “And he’s old and rickety! If he can bend his knees. . .”

Rickety? When did I become rickety? Heck, how did he even learn that word?

Note to self: time to scale back the kids’ vocabulary lessons.

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