I know that I grew up with two brothers and that I should be unfazed by the crazy aggressive shit my own boys call play--but I am not. I am surprised each time I watch them wrestle by just how forceful  they are with each other. They kick, punch, hit, pull, grab, bite, poke, and pinch all in the name of play. Their idea of fun is missed on me, although I think Stephen gets it.

Stephen  knows when to call it good, but he often encourages their wrestling from the sidelines. I, on the other hand, typically hide on the couch with my head covered and yell, "Move away from the fireplace! You are too close!" (I am deathly afraid of the damage potentially done to one's head from a fall on our sharp stone hearth, and even though my head is covered, I know they are always too close to the fireplace).

This story is going somewhere, trust me.

We watched the Superbowl at my grandparent's home (Yep, we did. Thanks Grandma and Grandpa!). I don't care for football and that is putting it mildly. I actually hate football more than I hate tape--ouch! But it is true. So I gave myself a pedicure, ate nacho cheese dip, balanced the checkbook, and hardly glanced at the big screen TV.

The boys don't care much for football either and I am hoping it stays that way, although from the looks of this home video that is probably a hopeless hope. About as hopeless as hoping that Wyatt will some day stop eating his boogers. Well, maybe not that hopeless--we haven't tried cayenne pepper or cutting off his right index finger yet.