…until somebody gets marker on their eyeball.
The boys were playing football before dinner last night, which meant showers were in order. When they came in to eat, I sent them off to wash their hands. And they did. They were clean from the wrist down, and had dried mud on their forearms.
But they went off to bed all washed and sweet smelling.
Twenty minutes later, Fritz was upstairs looking a little worried. His eye hurt, and small wonder since his eyeball had black ink on it. As I helped him wash out his eye (which did no good), he explained that he and Billy were having “marker wars.”
Yes, they were throwing uncapped magic markers at each other. Besides the marker-in-the-eyeball, both boys had neck and shoulders decorated as though a Piet Mondrian-inspired tattoo artist had gotten his hands on them.
Besides the minor physical discomfort at having a marker in his eye, the boys were concerned that the black mark would be permanent, and were relieved to learn it would not be. Of course, now there is no incentive no avoid such foolishness in the future.