9:08 AM. Sunday. Quiet, peaceful, John Hughes movie on TV. Last 3 WhoNu (pseudo-healthy) cookies in hand, glass of milk waiting for serious dunking.
Bliss. Full.
From basement: Wha-thump. Wha-thump. WHA-THUMP.
Me: If I ignore it, it will stop.
From basement: Wha-thump-thump. Wha-thump-thump-THUMP!
Me: Clearly these children don't worship at the alter of 80s popculture icons.
Husband wanders in from bedroom, pondering thumping noise.
Me: Sigh. G! You're 8 years old! KEEP YOUR BALLS OFF THE WALL!
Husband: Snicker... snicker snicker snicker.
Me: Did that just happen?
It's always a good idea to start your sunny Sunday morning with Molly Ringwald and accidental rude language aimed at your perfectly innocent 8 year old and his dueling tennis balls.
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