I just taught my son to throw rocks. I didn’t mean to. We were outside, thinking it’s nice to have Florida weather in winter, when he came to me, eating a fist-sized rock.
“That’s a rock. Don’t eat it.”
He continued to eat it.
“Yuck! Out of your mouth.”
He continued to scrape his teeth along the rock. This makes a very spine-chilling sound. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I took the rock, said, “Ick!” once more, and tossed it out of his reach.
He picked up another fist sized rock. “Ball!” he said.
“No, not a ball. Rock. Rock. It’s a rock,” I panicked.
“Ball!” he insisted, scraping his teeth along it.
“No. Rock. A rock. Just a rock.”
“Ball,” he exclaimed, and to help his dolt of a mother understand, he threw it.
He has a good arm for a 1 year old. Heck, he has a good arm for a 38 year old mother. Luckily, we were far away from any windows. And children. And little old ladies.
Oh, I hope it snows soon.