I was ready to strangle my son on Sunday and it is all my parents’ fault.
My blog yesterday was about watching my parents hunt Easter eggs, but there is one more tale from Easter I have to tell. The tale of my youngest kid, the marshmallow gun and the grandparents silly enough to let him play with it when he was in the mood to bedevil his mama.
My husband Eric and I went to my parents’ house for Easter dinner. My older son and his friend Jessica were also there. And we were all silly enough to invite the 17-year-old, Matthew. What were we thinking?
Then again, he was the one to arrange an Easter egg hunt for my folks, which was totally hilarious.
So anyway, my dad showed Matt the marshmallow gun, my mom gave him a half-full bag of ammo and the kid made me crazy for the rest of the day.
Every time I turned around … THWAP! I’d be tossing the salad and a marshmallow would bounce off my forehead. I’d be rolling croissants and a marshmallow would smack me in the cheek. I’d reach for my glass a wine and there would be a marshmallow floating in it.
Sailor, my parents’ dog, was eating so many marshmallows off the floor I was amazed he wasn’t sick.
At one point Matt went outside to see what kind of height he could get shooting the marshmallows straight up in the air. So I locked him out. And my mother, the traitor, let him back in! Sure, she wasn’t getting shot every five minutes.
I threatened to have his dad beat him up. He shot me. I threatened to make him go hungry. He shot me. I thwapped him on the head. He shot me. I even told him if he shot me once more I was going to punch his grandma, since she was the one that bought my dad the gun. He shot me. So I had to sock my mom. And he shot me.
This is the same child who was whining over Christmas vacation because Eric kept shooting him with the air soft rifle.
“Why did you get him that gun, Mom?” he would whine.
Guess what, kid? I’m going to get dad an air soft pistol, too! I told you not to shoot your mother.