I was working last night, listening to the sounds of my husband and children as they played their pre-bedtime games downstairs. There was laughter and squeals, quick foot stomping as they played from one room to the next. I smiled.
Then there was a bang. Not the normal toy-thrown-against-the-wall bang or the scary child-banging-head-on-the-floor bang, but a deeper, more thud-like bang. Then silence. After a long moment my 6-year-old’s snarky voice pealed through the air. “You are going to be in so much troouublle!!”
That’s when I moved. At the top of the stairs I saw them – father and two children staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs, all wearing identical wide-eyed, innocent expressions.
“Nothing,” my husband said shortly. “Go back to work.”
“R,” I said, because there exists no better tattle-taler in the world than my daughter. “What happened.”
She pointed to the stairs. At first I didn’t see anything. Then my husband pulled from behind his back two thick, splintered pieces of wood – the remnants of a part of our railing that fell victim to their fun.
Apparently my intelligent, educated, 33-year-old husband thought it a good idea to play catch by throwing the football from the great room, down the hall, past the stairs to our son standing in the back of the family room. (Let me note that the last time this was thought to be a good idea, we ended up with a broken clock and shatter glass from framed pictures that no longer line the stairs.)
As much as it pains me to think of the repair that is now necessary, I have to admit – it’s pretty cool my husband threw the ball hard enough to splinter a section of our solid wood stairs. I always did like a guy with good arms;)