I’m sitting on the couch watching football, hoping against hope that my fantasy team will lose with some dignity. Upstairs I hear a commotion of wrestling, jumping and yelling coming from my youngest daughter’s bedroom where she’s supposed to be resting.
I storm up the stairs and throw open her door. She’s sitting on her knees in her bed, holding her Webkinz elephant in one hand. Her other hand is balled up into a tiny fist.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m punching my elephant.” A sheepish grin slowly spreads across her face.
“Oh. Carry on.”
He probably had it coming.
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