"I'm the champion of Ball Bashing!!"
Let me back up a little. Lately the kids and I have been ball bashing an awful lot. As you have probably guessed this involves the little sponge balls I use for carpet football demonstrations in my living room. Originally we used to just run around after the balls (one each to avoid rage) and try and kick them in the "goal" (under the horse/at the couch). Then my son unleashed his inner feral wolf and started running around with the ball in his mouth. Obviously my daughter followed suit (also inexplicably mumble-screaming the word "banana!" from behind her ball). That day Dog Boy and Wolf Girl were born. I wasn't all that fussed on slobbering all over one of my own balls. So my son - the giver that he is - insisted on running at me with the ball and "delivering" it into my mouth. Thereby also giving birth to Dingo Dad.
As fun as that was he seems to have less dribble control than I do, so I relented and started running around with my own mouth-ball. This lasted a few weeks until my kids started just running as hard as they could directly into each other so that their balls would bash together (have fun with that Google you heartless bastards). Imagine those crash-test-dummy tests for airbags where two vehicles smash into each other head-on and you are in the right ball park. For good reasons my daughter demanded to only have the red ball. This is because ball bashing is much much funnier to my son leading to him smashing his ball into her and then dropping it laughing hysterically. Thereby allowing my daughter to yell, "I bashed so hard my ball turned red!!" It's all in the planning you see.
My pride cannot be measured. Here's a photo of my son trying to, "pass the torch" so to speak.
And just to prove that we don't only play games that involve shocking innuendo and inappropriateness here's my son shoving his little Thomas into a tunnel.
Now, I'm off to dip my drumstick in my wife's gravy.