Which would be okay, except I was playing against my four-year-old. “Too fast, Mama!” he whined.
“Sorry bud! I’ll slow down.”
I reluctantly handed the paddle to Scott and positioned myself on the sidelines.
“Mama, do you think you can chill out a bit and play with Max again?” Scott asked.
“Of course. Sorry, Max. Mommy gets a little excited when she plays air hockey,” I said. “I’ll relax.”
But the minute the paddle was in my hand, my wrist flicked, firing the puck off the sides of the table and slap, right into Max’s goal slot.
“MAMA!” he cried, throwing himself onto the carpet.
“Baby!” Scott said. “What the heck?”
With my head down, I silently handed over the paddle to Scott.
We huddled around the drum set while Max crashed about on his drums with abandon, not unlike the way I had become possessed with the air hockey paddle in my hands only hours before. I listened to the song, which somehow sounds better and better each time I hear it. Which is often. The melody washed over me as I watched the musicians on Scott’s screen, and I found myself swaying.
How do you lighten up?