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Last night, after bath time and jammies, the boys got to watch one show in my bed.  Whatever it was, it didn’t engage Pierce particularly, because it wasn’t long before he was out in the living room with Greg and me.  He found a tennis ball that he had played with in the bathtub, earlier, and—sort of soggy—it proved interesting, again.  Daddy, rarely seeing far enough into the future to predict disaster, was smiling and encouraging Pierce about the fun ball he’s found.  I am gravely concerned as this conversation is taking place over my head where I sit on the sofa, which often times finds itself dead center of the ball’s trajectory.  Apparently, I was safe this time…  However….

Greg, always encouraging a good throwing arm for our future baseball or football player, but then also losing interest in his tutorial rather quickly, failed to see his son come and stand in front of the entertainment center and wind up to launch his tennis ball towards the other end of the room.  It appeared that his throwing mechanics, although encouraged consistently, have some room for improvement.  He wound up, released the ball, it immediately flies off willy-nilly like the a in a pinball machine, hits the beloved LCD television, to which the screen responds with a quick flash of light displacing the liquid crystals as the green felted orb bounces out of the room removing itself from the evidence.  We both gasped and stopped dead, staring at El Destructo.  I think Pierce knew something that was not supposed to happen had happened, and was standing stock still and wide-eyed.  Daddy, after he finally came back to his senses, gently but firmly scolded him about throwing the ball near the TV.  Well, of course, Pierce didn’t mean to launch it into the television, and soon he very quietly but very quickly skulked out of the room with the tragic look of stifled tears on his little mug.  I believe Greg’s response was, “Oh… no…”  Then he jumped to his feet and went looking for his wounded boy.  It was about this time that our tot gave up his whereabouts by the sobs.  He was sitting in the corner against Michael’s bed sniffling and crying.  It was so pitiful that daddy felt terrible, so he scooped him up and consoled him with hugs and kisses while continuing to talk about not throwing things around the TV.  I got quite a few snotty hugs and snuggles out of my little love, too.  Daddy’s good but Mommy’s better—she has boobs…

I’ve had several posts about the systematic destruction of Greg’s prized possessions and some of mine.  What things have your children ruined that made you want to put them up for adoption?  Or what haven’t they ruined (if that list is shorter?)