House of Doom


I have explained to my husband over and over again how terribly uncomfortable I am with the idea of our kids being allowed toy guns.  While he doesn’t necessarily have a problem with the concept of toy guns himself, he assured me he’d totally and completely support me on this.

He’s such a great guy.  Not only is he supportive when we’re in disagreement, but he even watches the kids a couple of times a month so I can go out with my girlfriends.  Just last weekend I went out to lunch with a friend and came home to find Ethan fully engaged with our children, down on the floor with them and everything.

I noticed when I got home that our camping tent had been erected in our living room.  Turns out he needed to put up the makeshift bomb shelter to protect his progeny.  What?  You don’t have a bomb shelter in your living room?  You are so silly.  How do you plan to protect yourself from the chemical warfare (spray sunscreen) and poison lava (bubbles)?

Ethan and the kids skirted disaster when their anti-aircraft arsenal (bristle blocks) successfully detonated the roadside bombs (wiffle balls).  The opposing enemies (Dora and Boots) were in prime attack mode, missiles at the ready (Aquadoodle pens).  I am just so eternally grateful that my family was rescued by the passing armored combat vehicle (little red tricycle adorned with ribbon and bell, which at no point was I upset was on my living room carpet).  Never have you witnessed a tougher looking group of men than my kids’ rescuers (the Wiggles).

Nothing warms my heart like watching Crusher’s French toast sticks battle it out with his raspberries, complete with the requisite gunfire soundtrack all boys are innately born to imitate.

But as you can see, there are no toy guns in our house.  I appreciate my husband because I know not everyone’s is as supportive as mine.  Sorry ladies, the Ethanator is taken!

 

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