Don't call DFCS

We have a history in my family of enthusiastic and creative rough-housing. When Josh and I were really little (before Sam was born), we came up with increasingly violent games to play with my dad. We'd pile pillows against the wall at the head of his bed, and he would get in a crouched down position (with his head toward the pillows). We would sit on the small of his back, and then he would straighten his legs and send us flying into the pillows/wall. This was called Being The Machine, as in, "Daddy! Be The Machine! Be The Machine! Again, again!!" There was also The Helicopter, where he would get on all fours on the bed and we would climb on his back like he was a horse and then he would spin and buck around until we got thrown off. The Helicopter-Chair was another iteration.

But Jason has my childhood games beat by a mile. He has all kinds of insane stories about the stuff he and his brothers used to do, often involving careening down steep hills on skateboards with nail-studded pieces of wood dragging behind them to make sparks on the road -- that sort of thing. Suffice it to say that it's a miracle he made it to adulthood.

I am not a nervous mother and it doesn't bother me when Jason throws Zeke around like he was made of foam. There is much flipping on the couch and bouncing on the bed and throwing from one surface to another, and all the while Zeke screams with laughter and giggles and says "again! again!!"

Every once in a while, they come up with something that makes me wince and scrunch my eyes shut. Until I can't help but start laughing.

They've actually been doing the "kicking the beanbag while Zeke lies on top of it" trick for awhile. Last night they came up with a way of doing it so that Zeke flies from the beanbag to the couch. I find it utterly hilarious, in spite of myself.