Short-Distance Running on Wii Fit… With Children

Me (starting): Oooh, this hurts. Ow. Ow. I hate this.Oooooh.

Natalie: “LOOK! Look at that!! Who is that? Who is that? Who is THAT???!”

Me: (gasps for breath)

Natalie: “WHOISTHATWHOISTHATWHOISTHATWHOISTHATWHOIS—”

Me: “That… is… Daddy, see?… in the… black?”

Sophie: (grabs my left foot)

Me: Ow, ow, who invented running? Because they deserve my foot up somewhere very sensitive on their persons right now.

Natalie: “LOOK! Is that Daddy? Is that Daddy, right there? See the black? Is that Daddy? IsthatDaddyisthatDaddyisthatDaddyisthatDa—”

Me: “No… not… Daddy…”

Sophie: (crawls up my left leg)

Natalie: “Oo, look at THAT one! Is THAT Daddy? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it?”

Me: (clutching side, panting)

Natalie: “Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it? Is it?”

Me: Someone’s about to get hurt.

Natalie: “IS IT DADDY? IS THAT DADDY? Ooo, look at the puppies! IS THAT DADDY? IS IT? IS IT?”

Me: “NO!!!”

Sophie: (swings from my kneecap by her teeth)

Natalie: “LOOK! LOOK AT THAT! It’s Chicken Little! CHICKEN LITTLE! Do you SEE that, Mommy? Do you see Chicken Little? Huh? Huh?”

Me: (seeing stars, imagining Chicken Little in my crockpot, alive)

Natalie: “Do you see Chicken Little? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do y—”

Me: “YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Sophie: (wraps around my esophagus)

Me: This is the worst day of my life. I hate everything. I totally understand how video games turn people into mass murderers. I myself will have to go on a rampage after breakfast. I hope Nintendo is happy.

Natalie: “Oh wow, is THAT Daddy? I think it IS Daddy! See the black shirt? See? Is it Daddy? Do you see him, Mommy? Do you see? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you? DO YOUDOYOUDOYOUDOYOUDOYOUDOYOUDOYOU???”

Sophie: “Tthhhhhbbbbbllllffffff.”

Wii Fit: “Congratulations! You have reached your goal of: 3 minutes! Well done!” (happy, shiny noise) “You have also unlocked: Long-distance run!”

Me: (has coronary)

Factory Guy is somewhat of a legend in our little family. (I’m sure you’ve experienced his handiwork too. Those rolls of wrapping paper without a cardboard cylinder for support? Zippers that stop two inches down with half your pants in their jaws? Super glue that remains wet and sticky on your cracked vase five hours after application even though it permanently affixed your fingers together in .3 seconds? Plastic wrap that stretches and rips and ties itself into sailor knots rather than tear neatly? Juice boxes that erupt if you so much as breathe near them? Packages of fragile computer equipment that can only be opened with a chainsaw? Inanimate objects that fill you with such rage that you will go on a killing spree if you can’t find SOMEONE to blame? Factory Guy.)

He’s been working overtime this week in our household. We’ve had:
A broken car window,
A stolen GPS,
A snapped guitar string (as Dan was going onstage, of course),
A shattered teacup,
A shattered coffee cup,
A bathroom flood,
Defective diapers,
Lost earphones,
A suicidal laptop,
A suicidal MP3 player,
Computer viruses,
More computer viruses,
Still more computer viruses, and
A doorway that planted itself directly in front of my little toe.
And it’s only Friday.

I just figured I owed you an explanation of why, rather than blogging this week, I’ve been out spreefully killing. (Factory Guy’s next.)