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Mazzy's favorite thing on earth is something she calls "booms". A "boom" is when someone tosses her up in the air so that she lands with a big PLOP on our king size bed, while whoever is doing the tossing yells "BOOM!" for maximum effect.

I'm not sure how these started but we've been doing "booms" forever. As Mazzy gets bigger, it's become more of a dad activity than a mom one. Daddy's better at it, she says. Which I translate to mean "more reckless". But truth be told, she's getting a little heavy for me to throw up in the air anyway.

"Booms" are usually done in the small window of time between when I put Harlow to sleep and Mazzy starts her bedtime routine. Mainly because I put the cabash on "booms" while Harlow was also in the bed, because the close proximity was enough to give me a heart attack.

I know, I'm no fun.

Recently, Mazzy has decided that not only are "booms" a Daddy-preferred activity, Mommy's not even allowed in the room. I am instructed to wait in the living room on the couch. I assume so I can't see how much potential danger she might be in. 

When I'm not worried Mazzy's head will accidentally hit the corner of the bedpost (nobody ever explained how much I'd have to trust my husband once I had kids with him), I try enjoy the forced break from parenting. I sit back and play on my phone while a small piece of my brain waits for something to go wrong.

Like lately, my audio cues tell me "booms" are getting increasingly aggressive.







Whenever there's silence, my heart skips a beat. 

"Do it again, Daddy!!!"


"Do an upside down boom!"


"Do a flip boom!"


"Do a SUPER boom!"


I don't know what the difference between an "upside boom" and a "flip boom" is, my position on the couch affords me no visual reference— I just know they all sound lethal. 

Each of Mazzy's demands ups the ante but seems to end with everyone in one piece. Until last night.



Mazzy's screams filled our apartment and I sprang to my feet, running as fast as I could into the next room. Straight to my daughter while Mike stood back to let me do my job.

"ARE YOU OKAY???????" 

She didn't look hurt. There was no blood. She would be crying much louder if there was something broken, right?

"Are you okay???" I said again, les panicked this time, with a look that somehow showed concern for my daughter, while using the third eye in the back of my head to lob silent disapproval squarely at my husband.

Mazzy continued crying while not really seeming that injured. She crawled into my lap and I hugged her close. 

Mike spoke. "She landed wrong. I knew something was going to happen sooner or later."

My third eye said, "You think?"

"Where does it hurt?" I asked softly.

Mazzy pointed to her forearm.

I gave her arm a kiss.

"Does that feel better?"

She nodded.

As I gently rocked my big girl in my arms, both of us clearly milking this non-injury for some cuddle time, Mazzy started to pull herself together. 

"I guess an upside-down-flip-around-super-boom is not a good idea after all," she stated sadly.

I laughed and kissed her on the forehead. "I guess not," I said, my third eye mouthing "I told you so."

We stayed like that for a bit. Her being dramatic and weepy. Me cradling her in my arms and being overly attentive. Mike standing on the other side of the room, looking on.

Then she jumped up abruptly and gave her signature smile.

"Okay! You go in the other room Mommy, so Daddy and I can keep doing BOOMS!!!!"

And there I was. Back in the living room as an outsider again, while Mazzy's fate was left entirely up to her dad.

I do trust him. And I try not to be too jealous of the squeals of laughter emanating from the other room.

I get it. Dad's fun. He does better "booms", he lets her ride on his shoulders, he pushes her higher than I'm willing to push on the swings.

But that's okay, because I have my role too.

I'm comfort.

Together, we make a pretty good team.


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