I've said it before and I'll say it again, "I don't wrestle". All three of the males in my house would put wrestling as one of their favorite ways to burn off energy and pass the time. Me on the other hand, I occasionally will pull out the camera, find a safe haven preferably off the ground, and wait to document the drama that is sure to unfold.
It starts innocently enough, tag team tackle on dad.
Dad retaliates with a little upside down hold to get the blood flowing.
But then big brother turns on little brother, and things go down hill, fast.
Little brother defends himself in the only way he knows has been proven effective.
Biting.
Think it was an accident, think again.
Photographic proof of the evil intent.
Biting leads to a time out, which leads to crying.
But don't get ahead of yourself, it is not the afore mentioned evil one who is crying because of the punishment.
No, it is his big brother crying.
Not because he lost his partner in the pursuit of pinning dad.
Rather he is crying because he feels bad his brother is on time out.
The tears are nothing a little tickle can't take care of.
Big brother gets his fighting spirit back even with out his punished partner and dad is no match.
And when you are a dad in the back half of your thirtieth year, it is smart to know when to admit defeat.
Aren't you glad I don't wrestle. Think of what you would have missed.
