Just before juice time...

It was bound to happen. Yesterday, I had to confiscate Didgeridoo Boy's cap gun. I'm tired of the damned thing, and can't get my head around how a six foot, three inch man with a proclivity to giggle so hard he snorts and not gifted with the the first whit of the blessing of grace can silently lower himself to the floor and fire a tiny toy pistol under the crack of a closed door. But that is what he did. Again.

So I gave chase. Down the hall and through the kitchen he went, giggling, running on tiptoe like a merry, stretched-out toddler jacked up on Skittles. "Give me the thing.", I demanded. He giggled and pranced all the more. Into the living room, around the couch, around the couch, another time around the couch, and back around the couch again we went. He had stopped giggling. "Stop! Stop it!", he said. "Stop chasing me!" We stood still, and I demanded the cap gun. "NUH-UH!", cried Didge, and took off again. I trailed him some more, and he claimed he no longer had the cap gun. Noticing it wasn't in his hand, I told him to tell me where he put it. He wouldn't. So I chased him around the kitchen and living room for that information.

When we took another break, he sat down on the couch while I stood across the room from him, glaring, arms folded like I thought I was a bouncer. (Have I mentioned that my hair was wet and up in a towel durning all of this? I should, because it was.) "I really don't have it anymore!", he said, holding up empty hands to show me. And so I asked, "You like energy drinks and cigarettes, don't you?"

He reached into his back pocket and presented me with the cap gun.