Even from afar, it appears that SB and his toys can still be dangerous. He’s at his papa’s this weekend, so in between lying on the couch in full slug mode, I tidy up the house so that I can at least pretend I was marginally productive. This usually means putting thousands of tiny little pieces of Legos (why, WHY?) in their boxes, doing 20 or 30 loads of laundry, etc.
Yesterday I was putting away all the parts to Darth Tater (again, why???) and somehow stepped on the little light saber and cut my foot. Blood and everything, and it was a good thing SB wasn’t here because I didn’t even know I could swear like that.
The irony of all this is I had just finished talking to SB about not playing with “fighting toys”, and survived the cod red nuclear meltdown after confiscating his Ninja Turtles until he’s older.
Then I was brutally attacked by a potato’s light sword.
Since we have a rat in a bathrobe, why not add Darth Tater to the mix? I give up.
Never give a three year old a Slinky. That’s all for now…