Punch Buggy Annoy-Olymp-a-thon

We don’t see Trevor much, or nearly enough. There are tons of things that we miss about him when he’s not around.

You know what I don’t miss? Ever?

You know what I do a little happy dance about when he gets on the plane to go back north?

The temporary suspension of the fucking Punch Buggy shoulder game punch nonsense.

I’m sorry. I wish I was cool step-mom. But I.HATE.THAT.GAME.

With every little strand in every little piece of my body, that game drives me ape shit.

And Trevor, bless his perfect twelve year old little soul, just can’t help himself. He can’t. I know that.

I know that twelve year old boys have no say over this game. That they must participate or risk losing their little boy licenses.

And I know that Daddies must play with their sons as some sort of male bonding ritual.

He and Josh play this game constantly every.single.time Trevor is in town. (I dare say Trevor probably never stops playing this game.)

They keep some kind of score and they always know where everyone else is at in the ranks.

Sometimes, if Josh is close to “winning” he’ll surreptitiously drive by a VW lot and pound the crap out of Trevor’s shoulder and declare a certain, yet unfair, victory. Meanwhile, I’m stuck along for the out-of-the-way ride biting holes in the sides of my cheeks. Trevor will then sulk forever until he spots a stupid VW out of nowhere and can reciprocate the beating.

Both Trevor and Josh are die hard players. They would not find it at all strange to unbuckle a seat belt and hurl their bodies to the front of the van in order to deliver the first punch when a Bug is sighted.

I have made it very clear that I do not play this game.

Yet, still, Trevor just cannot stop the outward thrust of a punch when he sees a fucking Beetle. He doesn’t care if it’s MeWhoDoesNotPlay that is standing there. I get whacked.

AHHHHHH! It seriously makes me want to stop in my tracks, pound my feet and fists on the pavement and scream until I’m hoarse.

Instead I smile a little so as not to explode . I don’t laugh. I don’t say “Good eye, Champ!” I do nothing to encourage this shit. I don’t scold him because I know in my mommy brain that he has no ill intentions and that he’s twelve. God help him, he’s twelve. And he’s powerless against the lure that is pounding people.

I hate that Grant and Cannon are going to pick this crap up any day now (frankly, I’m shocked they haven’t started it yet) and that I’m going to be subjected to jolting shoulder blows from even more angles.

I hate it.

And this is why I write about it, I guess.

Because in my damn stupid Mommy brain I know that I have to just let them play and that there is nothing I can do. I can’t “outlaw” it. They would just do it softer and quieter.

UNLESS

What if I pulled a reverse psychology thing and became the Punch Buggy Goddess? Feigned interest and vigor about it and kicked his little ass at his own game? Whooped him into submission and into creating his own disdain for the sport?

Hmmm. I could order team shirts and make him wear his shirt on outings…. And to camp!

This just occurred to me while typing and I may have to formulate a game plan on this.

Please feel free to give me your thoughts, ideas, strategies… the rules for your submissions are only that the end result HAS to be that this game dies a horrible death….

Or you can just stroke my tangled hair back from my tear stained face and whisper “it’ll be okay” into my virtual ear.

*sob* hold me.