…and I sat there thinking “I did this on purpose?!”

I was watching my kids, and some of their friends. 5 kids in all, which is not a bad number of kids to spend 4 hours with, even when they’re all between 7 and 10 years old!

The moms of all these kids, my wife included, were all at a retirement party for a friend of theirs. I happily agreed to watch the rugrats at our house: it was a hot day, so they could play in the sprinkler, have squirt-gun fights, eat popsicles on the grass – no prob.

And that worked for a while… until the storms hit. Soooo then we moved inside, and I ordered pizza, and lots more playing and running and laughing and giggling happened. (Yes, most of it from the kids, thank you very much.)

As the time approached for the mom’s to arrive, we devised a plan to make them all laugh. I allowed myself to be tied to a kitchen chair (Note to everyone calling child services: I was tied loosely, so I could get myself out in case of emergency, thank you very much.) Then, (this was their favorite part) all of the kids put on some type of costume or mask or headdress, and picked up something fluffy that they could hit me with.

The whole idea, of course, was that as soon as all the moms walked into the house, they would see the kids running in circles around me tied to a chair, hitting me with fluffy things, as though I’d lost control of the whole shebang in a horrible pint-sized revolution. It would be fun, the moms would laugh, the kids would love it when they did.

That was the plan.

Then the phone call came: “Hey! How are the kids? Great! We’re leaving in a second, see you in a couple of minutes!” Perfect: Everyone in place, watch the driveway… and wait. Then the kids decide a trial run is necessary. Sooo the yelling and generally being crazy starts, and there are kids running around me enjoying the chance to beat up on the grown up. (I’m not sure, but I think John Mellencamp’s “I Fight Authority” playing in the background.) And so the trial run of circling and pummeling is taking place, and right as I am saying the sentence “Be Gentle, don’t hit me too hard”, I am walloped. Hard. Right where a man does not want to be walloped. By a big green Hulk fist (it makes it’s own sounds! HULK SMASH!).

As I tried to speak through the barrage of pillows, foam fists, blinding agony and (although I may have hallucinated this part) someone yelling “HOW CAN YOU HAVE YOUR PUDDING IF YOU DON’T EAT ANY MEAT?!?!”, I heard one little voice say: “The moms are here! They’re here! This is not a drill! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!” – and the cacophany that I was swimming in tripled in intensity.

And the moms entered. And the kids performed. I squirmed and put on a big “Oh, they’ve got me! Thank God you’re here!” performance and didn’t let on that being tied to the chair was a good thing, because I couldn’t have stood to greet them anyway. Everyone laughed, huggy reunions all around, and people began to disperse.

And as I slowly untied my ankles from the chair legs, I thought… “I did this on purpose?”

Yep. Sometimes, dads make sacrifices.

Then I retired to the couch with a cold beer that doubled as an icepack, thank you very much.