The other day I came through the door after work and greeted my family, at which point Benjamin asked me, “Daddy, do you want to play ‘The Black Knight’ with us?”
“Uh, no, not right now. Daddy is kinda tired.”
You do not say yes to this game, no matter how tired you are (or aren’t). This is not a game. Unless you’re into the who-wants-to-devour-daddy-like-he’s-a-peice-of-raw-meat-in-a-tiger’s-cage kinda game. The tired bit is a line I often employ but may as well read “Yes, please, give me your best shot.”
Que a two and four-year old diving at my legs with reckless abandon, grunting and screaming as if they were storming the castle.
“Great!” Benjamin yells, “You’re the black knight and we’re going to cut your legs off!”
Such brutality is purely logical to them. They see a cartoon about a mysterious black knight that two friends are trying to track down (Phineas & Ferb), and they jump to the only logical conclusion: when you find him, you cut his legs off. Of course that’s what you do. Who wouldn’t do that? And since Daddy is mysterious and bigger than us and we love him, we’re going to find him and take out his legs.
That’s just the way the world is under three feet.