Marshmallow Blow Gun

We are 15 hours into the 17 hour cross country journey and, besides watching for tornados and worrying that Stella’s windshield is leaking, we have lost another tooth and entered into the stage of childhood road tripping that involves drawing a line down the middle of the seat and telling the kids not to cross it.

I remember playing this game with my own sister – we’d drive each other crazy by creeping our toe or finger over the middle line in the seat, sometimes even daring to touch each other just for a scream of outrage.

My parents would threaten to pull the car over (and when they did it usually ended with tears over a stinging backside!) and we’d eventually annoy each other into exhaustion and end the journey with pinkie swearing and giggles over secrets we thought my parents couldn’t hear us whisper over the enormous distance of three feet that separated us from the front and back seats.

It’s good to know my fond childhood memories continue on to the newest generation.

Dos just yelled that Uno was hitting her. Uno says Dos is touching her with her toes. Keep in mind, they’re able to complete these shenanigans while buckled into a five-point harness system! (But on a good note, they’re wearing all their clothes, which has not always been the case on our road trips!)

I’ve been fielding complaints for 200 miles and I finally looked at Lizard and told him I was no longer content to throw fast food packages and gummie worms at them from the front seat, I want something to tag them with when their body parts make unauthorized excursions to the east and the west.

He said he could make me a marshmallow blow gun.

And that, my friends, is why I love my husband.

(I also love that I first wrote he would make me a dart gun and when I read this to him he launched into a dramatic interpretation of a child clutching their chest from a poisoned marshmallow dart and falling to the ground.)

The end.