Wetsuit

When I arrived home from work yesterday, the kids were cleaning up their mess on the balcony, picking up bikes and putting toys away in boxes.

I put my stuff down and started to help. Until I picked up a cup with half an inch of water in the bottom.

There were a couple of ways I could have gone with the cup of water. The way I chose was, with a flick of the wrist, to fling the water at Master7’s head as he trotted past.

“Daaaaaaad,” said Master7, as I chuckled and went back to picking stuff up. When I turned back to face him half a minute later I was hit by a wall of maybe ten times more water, most of which went over my shoulder, but a got bit got me fair in the face.

Master7, the jug in his hand, was laughing riotously. So was Tracey, who’d obviously handed him the jug through the kitchen window. The next five minutes were lost to a water fight of epic proportions and spilled out onto the drive and had everyone wet drenched and in stitches.

Funny stuff. Until…

I arrived home at lunch time today and stepped onto the balcony.

“Honey! I’m ho-”

I didn’t get to finish my sentence, as I was met, once again, by a wall of water. Only my son’s aim had gotten better with practice.

“Tracey!” I called, dripping from head to waist. Master7 was grinning at me like he’d just pulled of a major coup de grace.

My good wife stuck her head out the kitchen window and took in the scene.

“Is that what you wanted the jug for?” she grinned at our son.

So my lunch was a bit rushed today as I had to waste a bit of time finding and changing into a new, dry uniform, and explaining to Master7 any future water games must henceforth start with him getting drenched, not me.