Goofball, The Next Generation

My daughter is a free spirit. In fact, I have labeled her a goofball. I should know. It appears she is following in my fooptsteps.

Back in the day, there was a toy called Time Bomb. Basically, it was an explosive version of musical chairs. You wound up this plastic bomb and threw it around in a circle. If the bomb "went off" when you were holding it, you were eliminated. You'd wind it up again and again, until there was only one child left standing, the winner.

Anyway, one year, we bought Time Bomb for my sister. I was having fun taunting her, telling her we got all these various gifts for her birthday that we really had not bought.

"We bought you Surfer Barbie and an Easy-Bake Oven. We bought you Creepy Crawlers. We also got you a Lite Brite. And we got you a Time Bomb..."

An instant realization that I told her about something we actually got her was accompanied by a spontaneous burst into tears. I was inconsolable. How could I do that? Hilarious now, horrifying then.

Another time, I received a miniature tool set. I brought it over to my next-door neighbor's house and spoke these immortal words to a child my age, Alan Mandel: "I bet you hit me in the forehead with a hammer and it wouldn't hurt."

Now mind you, this was not a plastic hammer. It was metal with a wooden handle. Alan took me up on my offer. Hammer met forehead. My hypothesis was proven wrong.

I ran home, tears streaming down my face.

"Mom, Alan hit me in the forehead with a hammer!"

"Why would he do that?"

"I told him to."

So Rachel, embrace your inner goofball. But please, be a smarter goofball than your dad!