So I found a bag of peppermint taffy on sale at the drug store when I was picking up the opioids that have made my life bearable for the past few weeks and, yes, thank you modern chemistry for better living, aka Daddy's Little Helpers™. Every few days I notice the bag, grab a few and walk to wherever my oldest three daughters are and whip one at each kid. Okay, maybe I don't really whip 'em, exactly, but the throw's got a little heat on it, and sure, when a piece of taffy unexpectedly pelts you in the thigh, there's a chance it maybe stings a tiny bit. I have given the girls the choice of no candy or painful candy several times and they have decided, to a one, that it's a worthy tradeoff, as well as being a perfect metaphor for their father's love.
So just as I'm starting to embark on this endeavor today, Max suddenly leaves her room—and, no, she didn't know what was coming—and goes to her mother's room, since Top Management has muttered something about finding a new font, and that idea's like catnip to Max. I chuck the candies at the other two—actually, I really do bring my fastball with the one to The Rose, bouncing it off the wall to her left and perfectly executing the ricochet so it hits her bicep—and proceed to Victim Number Three. I toss it underhand, so it hits the ceiling and comes down...just missing Max, and instead hitting the floor between her and her mother.
Who shrieks in surprise, before seeing what the thing actually was, whereupon she bellows, "Yes! Bring me seven more!"
I grab eight, for I am a kind and benevolent inflictor of sweets, and go back to the room to deliver what she has requested and more.
I start tossing them in, bouncing them off the ceiling, the wall, a bookcase. Top Management begins to shriek, louder and louder with each gift, ending with an emphatic "ow!"
"Did any of those hit you?" I ask, trying to sound unconcerned even though on the inside I am quailing.
After the slightest of pauses, she says defiantly, "One almost did."
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