A few nights ago, we were playing "ski jump" on the wii in the basement. Ski jump is hard -- you have to get your weight juuuust right, and stand up but not actually jump at JUUUUST the right moment. And when you weigh just 42 pounds, there's not a lot of weight to shift around to control the Wii Fit device.
So Noah became a "meatball," which is how he refers to the condition of falling off the slope and turning into a snowball with skis and poles sticking out of it. And then again. And again. The charm of "being a meatball" wore off as his frustration increased over not being able to get off the jump. He began to hurl himself at the ground and kick each time he "meatballed" to the bottom of the hill. For a kid who never threw a tantrum as a 2-year-old, it was a pretty good try.
Eventually we changed to a game that was less challenging, he pulled himself together, and we bowled a couple of games and then went upstairs to get ready for bed. And as we curled up on the bed, I asked him about it. "Oh, Mommy, my brain was taken over by aliens. I'm fine now" he explained.
Well, okay. I'm going to have a hard time arguing with that one. Frankly, it was what I thought at the time.
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