It was before dinner, the witching hour for young kids and parents, the time when all chaos tends to break loose. I’m attempting to throw something healthy together and keep our sons from demolishing one another. Just an average late afternoon at the Pogue Cottage.
Ty was kicking Tanner.
Tanner was smooshing Ty’s face into the couch cushions and both were on the verge of tears. Wait. Make that three of us.
We need some fun, I thought.
I remembered how Dad used to play this silly made up game with the boys, called “I am the King.” So I decided to channel my playful inner Papa and declared it “I am the King” time and suddenly the mood in the room shifted.
Except they had to teach me how to play.
You put your hands and knees on the couch and we yell, ‘I am the King,’ and then we crawl on your back and you fling us on the couch and yell louder, ‘No. I am the King.’
It took a couple of tries to get the hang of it. Tanner, who is almost up to my neck, took extra heaving, but before we knew it, I was in a laughing-wrestling “I am the King” game with my boys, and my oldest, who now wipes my kisses away at school pick up, was burying his face in mine and welcoming them, and Ty was in hysterics, and we were breathing heavy from flinging and laughing and jumping back up then throwing again and in those sweet moments, I knew. I just knew Dad was glimpsing from heaven and smiling, knowing his game is still going on.
And in this version, the Queen won.