Zeke and I are champion roughhousers. The kind that you indulged in as a child while your mom hollered to quit it or someone would get hurt. Yeah, we never have the sense to quit it until someone gets hurt.
There was the time I threw a Harry Potter book at him. Think it was book 6, and that is not a small one. The bump it raised on his hand was impressive. Or the time I was throwing shoes at his head and while defending himself he gave me a fat lip. Keep in mind we were laughing as we were horsing around right up until the moment one of us would get hurt.
The day I went in to work with a fat lip a friend of mine told me we really needed to have a kid so there would finally be a grown up in our house. Strange logic, but sound logic as it turns out.
A few nights ago we started squabbling as we folded laundry before bedtime. I had a sock in my hand and was batting him with it and he picked up something (my underwear?) and followed my lead. The giggles started and we were heading straight to the taking it too far place when Z stopped and took a step back. “Wait! We are gonna wake the baby.” And we stopped. We stopped before someone got hurt.
That damn baby turned us into grownups.