Three strikes you're out

There is a major battle going on right now in our tiny, little household.

My son, who will be two years old next month, has entered a new stage of his young life: the hitting phase. What started out as an occasional flailing of the arms has turned into an all out, one-sided boxing match at times. Give him some gloves, and I bet he could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee too.

And while I am occasionally the recipient of these blows, it's Rich who suffers the brunt. He comes home from work, after about an hour and a half commute, happy to see his family, and when he leans in for a kiss, he gets bopped in the nose by a tiny little fist. I try and tell him that it's not personal, that it's just a two-year-old's way of saying, "Hey Dad, where the hell were you all day? You should have been home rolling trucks with me!"

But that's like telling the 23 DePauw University girls kicked out of the Delta Zeta sorority that it wasn't because they were awkward, slightly overweight and unpopular that they were banished.

It's been going on for days now, and I cringe when Rich walks through the door and requests a hug from our son. I just try and remove all hard, plastic toys from his little hands and hope for the best. To his credit, Rich is taking his pounding like a champ, getting up round after round only to be knocked down again.

My hope is that it doesn't last much longer, 'cause I'm tired of playing referee.