The cat’s out of the bag. I’ve spilled the beans. Things will never be the same. There’s no turning back.
A dirty, rolled up sock can be an effective weapon. The smellier the better. Dad’s seem to be more effective than the kids. Soon three bodies are hiding behind couches, pillows, or anything for cover. Six socks fling through the air at death-defying speeds. If my parents were here they’d be sure to say, “it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt!” After all, this is sock wars.
There was no million-dollar production and no fancy special effects. Just a Dad and his two kids going all out. The rules are simple. Don’t play to hurt the other. One point for facial contact. No holds bared. And it all ends when Mom comes into the room, noticing the rolled up weapon beside an expensive trinket on a shelf. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except for the fact that I was loosing.
Last night I crossed the line. Instead of telling my kids about the way my brothers and I destroyed the family recreation room (with three boys in the house, my mom called it the “wreck room”) with our favorite game, we’ve crossed the threshold. Sock wars is no longer a distant memory or one of Dad’s old stories, it’s a family tradition. And mom isn’t pleased.
Seems a little childish. A dad running around the house trying to bean his kids on the head with a rolled up sock. He should probably doing something adult-like. Maybe checking out the stock market, watering the lawn, or anything that adults like to do. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to let your hair down (assuming you have some) and have a free-for-all in the living room.
But then again, the kids did seem to enjoy it. Socks weren’t the only thing that filled the air. Shreeks of joy and laughter were abundant. “Oh no you don’t” and “I got you” are the two most common phrases. Afterwards my ten-year-old son thanked God for sock wars in his evening prayers. Could it be that God was pleased?