This evening we were downstairs. I was working on some earrings for a coworker. Kitten Thunder was, well, thundering. They zoomed around the basement at full speed. As they rounded a corner, Oliver ducked under The Boy’s workbench and Obi whizzed by. He didn’t get far before he realized he’d lost his prey.
Obi was trying to coax Oliver back out and into a run, but Oli settled under the chair. Then he raised his head and knocked a towel off the chair and over his face.
“What are you doing?” Obi wanted to know, excited.
“Who turned out the lights?” Oliver wanted to know, confused. It was Obi who saved his brother from a lifetime in the dark. He pulled the towel off his brother. Then bit him.
And they thundered on.
As I type, Kitten Thunder is on the bed behind me doing a small-space thunder. Move. Hold. Move. Hold. Obi will get Oli in a headlock, and lick his face. Oliver flips Obi over his head and off the bed. Oli retreats to the condo and Obi attacks imaginary bed monsters. Oliver leaps to the bed and Obi tears out of the room. Obi zooms back in and Oli flies back to the condo. I find this to be very cute. And maybe a little dangerous for me.
As I typed that, Oliver and Obi were wrestling, standing on their back legs. Obi went off the bed backward and hit the extra TV we have on the floor as he went down. It got and “OH! Are you okay?” out of me. He’s fine. But both boys have gone to their corners – a.k.a. they’re hiding under the bed because they think they’re in trouble.
while I’ve been laid-up sick on the couch, Callie Jean and the kids have switched back and forth between 2 strategies: 1. Mama is sick, let’s lay on her to keep her warm and comforted. 2. Mama is dead, let’s incorporate her into our do-it-yourself jungle gym! My head is now a springboard used for jumping onto the table lamp.
Oh noes! You caught the hobo cooties? That’s the danger of biological warfare, I suppose.
1. It is good that your fuzzies want to keep you warm and comforted.
2. It is good that your fuzzies are interested in recycling, should the warm and comfortable strategy fail to keep you living.
When I ask any of mine if they’re okay, knowing those words and the look on my face, they come for snuggles. “I don’t know, Mo. I may be really hurt. You’d better rub me all over and check it out…”