I stomped downstairs this morning to confront my husband.
“YOU PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK LAST NIGHT. REALLY HARD.”
“Oh,” he said looking sheepish, “I know.”
I raised an eyebrow so high I almost got a muscle cramp.
“Let me explain.”
“There’s no explanation for domestic abuse.”
“I was having a dream that I was playing frisbee with the kids,” he hastened to say, “And I was doing that move I like to do,
and I guess I actually made the movement with my arm. It woke me up immediately, (Ummm…ME TOO!!!!!) and I realized what had happened.”
“Well, it still hurts! Really bad. And the psychic wound hurts maybe even more!”
At that moment my son came down the stairs.
“Did you know your dad punched me in the back last night?”
“WHAT?” he gasped with gratifying horror.
“Yes, that’s right, your father punched the woman who gave birth to you and your siblings. In the back. While she was fast asleep.”
The perpetrator of the nefarious crime leapt to his own defense.
“ACTUALLY!” he said, pointing to his son, “It was YOUR fault!
“How is this MY fault?” the poor boy asked, with perfectly understandable indignation.
“YOU’RE the one who wanted me to play frisbee with you.”
Sad. Very sad.