The words left his lips before anyone had any idea they were coming. It was his farewell pleasantry to our lovely neighbour. His father was mortified. I, from the safety of the house, could not stop laughing.
Violence, warfare, death, zombies and gore are constant preoccupations to the boy folk of my household. They love a good fight and they love to talk smack, as their boyish punches fall short of their marks – mostly. Let me tell you that boys can scream like girls when real life injury occurs. Just today, after a blood curling scream signalling horrendous death was swiftly approaching, I heard the words “My brother broke my arm. He threw a pillow at it.”.
The same boy who threatens untold bodily harm on either brother, on a whim, would have us all believe that he was in unfathomable agony caused by an object most commonly associated with comfort.
One of the boys had only a month or so before this near fatal downy stuffing incident insisted that he wouldn’t even flinch if he was hit by a paintball and could we please go for a family outing to play a game of it sometime. I think not.
It seems that despite any attempt to describe the unpleasant consequences of undertaking combative activities the boy in them can not be told. Either they can not understand the theoretical concept of pain unless it is something that they are currently experiencing, it doesn’t exist, or their wonderfully inflated opinions of their own strength and robustness just aren’t in any way based in reality. Whatever the reason, my warnings of impending pain always fall on deaf ears.
Most activities require some form of weapon. Even watching TV is best done with a loaded gun. You never can be quite sure when those pesky villains might jump out of the box and force the occupants of our couch to defend their lives. More realistically I suppose, you might need to shoot your brother for causing a mortal wound with the nearest pillow or simply for being where you were aiming your gun, quite by accident, of course.
Once the ensuing pillow fight lulls, it usually ends in some sort of grappling around on the floor. Wrestling and pinning each other down. They suddenly need to practise a new hand to hand combat move they saw or heard about. Often they just feel the move coming on through their arms and legs and are powerless to stop it. A boy must fight. His opponents must be tackled to the ground and dominated. Needless to say, this sort of unrest takes up a lot of space and moves rapidly through the house, leaving mayhem and destruction in it’s path.
So for me it’s time to go, I need to referee the fight that’s currently taking place in my living room.
Hope you don’t die!
*Image from the movie 300.