A boy and his gun.
A Nerf gun on my kitchen table.
Yes, those are Nerf bullets on my ceiling.
Kids don't come with instruction guides or warning labels. So, no one told me when I brought home my sweet baby boy that three years later I would be tripping over train track, dodging Nerf bullets, being run over by battery powered Jeeps, getting hit by bats and balls, and moving Nerf guns off the kitchen table in order to sit down to eat dinner.
And to make matters worse, today the hubs said, "I want my own Nerf gun, babe. You should get one, too. Then all three of us could shoot each other around the house."
Boys will be boys...and they never grow up.