Apparently my husband has amazing aim (or stupendous luck) when we're in Oregon, IL. One time, we went fishing, and I was walking down the trail toward the river with the kids, and he was probably 25 feet behind us walking with his brothers. He does a practice cast off with his fishing pole, and the bobber (is that what it's called? The red and white floatie balls?) goes flying off his line at the very moment that Isaiah turns around to face them. It comes flying in a big arc and WHAPS Isaiah right in the forehead.
Then yesterday, he was playing around with his brother's golf clubs and (thank god) wiffle golf balls, when he decides to putt right in my direction (you see where this is going, don't you?) and THWAPS me right in the cheek with a freakin golf ball! If there hadn't been children there, a) I'd probably have started to cry and b) I'd have beaten him to death with the golf club.
That was the second time this weekend I wanted to beat him to death with a blunt object, actually. Saturday night, after my awesome sister in law's party wound down, I was dead on my feet. While there were still a few people around the camp fire, Hubs included, I retired to my tent in the Martinez ShantyTown of tents. Let me just say that isn't the most comfortable place in the world, so it took me some time to fall asleep. A little while later, I hear Smokey the Bear out there raking the camp fire to put it out, because he's paranoid about that kind of thing. So it's the dead of night, in the middle of nowhere, and I've just been woken up by this terrible sound. As he kept going with it, all I could think was, "I'm going to get up and beat you to death with that rake if you don't stop it. Right. This. Instant"
That said, we actually had a really wonderful weekend (my violent tendencies not withstanding)