This morning, my husband and I were valiantly trying to ignore the recently arisen bun by squeezing our eyes shut while he flailed around next to us in bed; it's been one of those weeks. So there we were, eking out another 27 seconds of precious slumber, next to a quite lively, quite lovely, quite alert bun. It was an impossible mission, so we began chatting about how freakin' tired we were. And then I asked him (thud, poke in the eye, grab, pinch) if he would trim the bun's nails since they had evolved into tiny razor blades in the last couple of days.
"Are they bad again? I just cut them!" (pull, tug.)
"He's carving up my boobs. He takes them and practices his death pincer grip on me while he's eating. It's a special joy I wish we could share." (whack, poke, giggle)
He leaned up to look at me. "You mean that you want him to hurt me too?" (yank, swat)
Pause. Well, yeah. I mean, sure, if it'll take some of the focus off my poor tortured tata's.
Not that I could say that.
"Just so you could get an idea of exquisite depths of pain a little tiny fingernail can wreak upon such tender flesh."
He wasn't impressed. "He claws my neck all the time. He rips my face."
Right. As if face to boobs wins. "Talk to me when he digs his nails into the most tender part of your inner thigh. That would be comparable." (tug hair, punt)
"He kicks me in the nuts constantly. He keeps growing, but somehow his feet are always level with my sack."
Well played, noble warrior. Well played.
I conceded defeat. Sack-destruction trumps boob-torture, even when they're being turned to hamburger by "The Little Butcher."