Wrestling, whacking, and battling are big parts of life here at GoofManor. According to academic literature, wrestling, or "kinetic play" is good for children.
Friday night, full of sugar (and in my case wine) is the Battle Royale. For years now, after the food is eaten, the wine is drunk, and the plates are cleared GoofBoy and I square off. He's faster, more aggressive, and better skilled. I however, am a full-grown adult. So after a little sparring, I grab him, drop him on the floor and sit on him. He would promise to get me next time and I would kiss his face and say, "Sure think buddy."
Except he's getting big, strong, and at 12 he's full of he's full of rage and his limbic system restrains him like cheesecloth holding back an Amtrak Metroliner.
It isn't that he can beat me (although that's coming!) It's that when I pin him down, I can't hold him so easy and I'm afraid if I apply the needed pressure I could really hurt him. Also if he gets in a lucky shot he could really hurt me!
Every time she sees us wrestle, MamaGoof shouts at us to stop, convinced one of us is going to get hurt. This has been going on for years and neither of us is worse for the wear. It doesn't help MamaGoof's concerns that GoofBoy's face turns bright red at the slightest exertion, so he looks like he's furious and overwrought when he's just playing.
But as GoofBoy gets stronger, the possibility of her warnings proving prophetic becomes greater. I really, really don't want her to be right (about this at least, she's right about most other things). Because if she is, I'll never live it down. And that will hurt more than GoofBoy's pummels.