My 6 year old, Nick, came in to my office today - begging me to open the huge boxes that came in the mail. "I think these are the dodge balls daddy, can we open them?"
10 seconds later he had as many colored dodge balls in his hands as he could hold, running for the family room where his brother Nathan was soon to be pelted multiple times with the business end of each one of them. Of course, Dodge ball in the family room is not on our list of recommended activites, but nothing is shattered or crushed as far as I can see.
Even though it's still a few days away, the anticipation of re-living my childhood alongside my sons and 146 other crazy men and boys at Father Son camp brings me back to age 12, shooting bb guns, hiking the woods, and fishing with my buddy Brad from a row boat with dug-up crawlers. I imagine these are things my boys and I will be talking about around the campfire someday when they're 40 years old.
In the meantime, I'll be packing fishing poles, rolling sleeping bags, and avoiding the family room until we load up the truck and head out. And Brad, if you see this, I'm pretty sure my dad is still sick of cleaning bluegill.