Goalie

I never played soccer, nor lacrosse, nor field hockey. At least not very well. I'm not much of a goalie.

But I'm learning.

Every day, I find myself playing goalie in front of the dishwasher, or bathtub, or (wait for it) . . .

the toilet.


The little guy on offense is formidable competition. He comes at me with plastic fish, toy trucks, stuffed teddy bears, balls, even socks and shoes. He squeals when he scores on me.

He yells, "No, no, no!" when I make a dramatic save (i.e., Mr. Monkey skimming the toilet seat). I spin him around and say, "Go, go, go!" He giggles and comes right back in my direction.

He has other games too. I found a cookie magnet in my new knee high rain boots the other day. There were baby bite marks on it.

He's got some skills in the area of ultimate fighting as well. He head butts me and body slams himself on his stuffed hippo chair.

He recently starting playing "Capture the Flag" with my eyeglasses. Thankfully, they're just for reading, otherwise I'd have to feel my way around to find him. And them.

My bed has been turned into a virtual NASCAR speedway. Exciting? Yes. Treacherous? Can be. There were cars zipping across my back at midnight last night. You should have heard the sound of their engines.

All of these BOYS R US games have turned my world upside down. But, I've got games of my own.

I'm an old pro at the "night-night, Mama / Wake up!" game and I am a master pilot when it comes to airplane rides. In fact, my son is now giving airplane rides to his stuffed animals. I'm wondering if he'll start wiping their paws a hundred times a day too.

Clearly, he could start with Mr. Monkey.