Going Down with a Fight

Beep beep.  No, it's not the noise that Road Runner makes, it is something much worse, for me at least.

"Beep Beep"

I would like you to picture a scene with me.  Imagine yourself putting a small boy to bed.  It is something you have done on numerous occasions in the past, in fact it has sort of become your job while your wife puts the girl to bed.  You are pretty confident that you aren't going to encounter anything that you can't handle.  But as it has been said, "Great words of prideful men are ever punished with great blows, and, in old age, teach the chastened to be wise" or, to put it slightly differently, never work with children or animals, or you will end up looking very foolish.

You're going to need to prepare yourself now because things are going to go downhill quickly.  You need to imagine yourself holding your son, and singing to him, as you always do.  You are then preparing to put him down when you make your critical mistake.  You forget that your little son has hands, and arms which he is very adept at wielding.  You also forget that he has recently developed a new favourite game, one which is not designed to increase your dignity.  You see your son has come upon a liking for the sound 'beep,' and the way that he likes to extract this noise is by mashing his hand into my nose. I will admit that it may have been partly my fault, having made the noise myself when he first found my nose, and following this, the game has grown.

So, having forgotten about the hands imagine your shock when you find them, in the gloom of a curtained bedroom, groping towards your nose.  You choose to ignore them, at your peril, but both your hands are tied up in preventing your son from falling to the floor and suddenly the Gro-bag, which is normally a wonderful invention has wrapped itself around you and you can't get out.   Seeing his opportunity your son reaches up and presses your nose gently.  You do not respond because it is bedtime and playing should not be encouraged.  This quietness is met by a very disgruntled shriek (incidentally, is there anything so indignant or disgruntled as a toddler deprived of his wishes?)  And you suddenly find your nose being mashed and twisted by two small fists.  This never having happened before you are not expecting the violence or strength of the little boy who is trying to rearrange the shape of your face.

At this point you have decided to beat a swift retreat.  The boy is kissed and placed, though plonked might be a better term, into his cot, you shut the door and subtly try to smush your nose back into place.  In the end no harm was done, but a valuable lesson was learnt.  Next time I put the little pugilist to bed I am going to be wearing full protective gear and pay closer attention to the swift right hook of my son.