Son has invited me to play a game he invented called Blast Mommy.
His blaster: a yoga mat
My blaster: a roll of paper towels
His fortress: a laundry basket + a cardboard box sandwiched between the wall + the bed
My fortress: stale air and dust motes swirling uselessly around me
His bullets-to-kills ratio: 1-to-1
My bullets-to-kill ratio: 19384920-to-1
I’m not liking my chances. But I’m going in.