I heard rumors of this rough-housing but I honestly had never really experienced it myself before now. I don't know if I have just had my head in the sand for decades or what.
The other night I came home from a brief respite away from my children (which landed me in the Washington Post) to my husband sitting on the couch, visibly exhausted.
K: What happened? Are you okay?
D: I'm fine. Your children are crazy.
K: I know. What did they do now?
D: They were jumping from the ottoman to the couch to my head back to the couch back to the ottoman.
K: That sounds about right.
D: For 15 minutes.
D: Without stopping.
K: Uh huh.
D: Then we wrestled on the floor for another 15 minutes.
K: Uh huh.
D: Didn't you run them today?
K: Like one would, say, run a dog? No. I did not.
D: They were crazy.
K: And the baby?
D: He so looked like he wanted to be in the middle of everything.
K: That's my boy.
D: I'm too old for this.
K: Me too.
Nate woke up the next day with scratches across his face and what appeared to be a bruised nose. Ethan had a scratch behind his ear and something going on with his forehead. When I asked them both if their injuries hurt, they looked at me like I was crazy. I promptly cut their nails. And this one? I think we may have more of the same.