Get me get me_resized


I get suckered into the chase me game all the time.  And who could resist.  He laughs and screams and runs his little, teeter-tottering toddler run, where he winds back and forth, his back arched and his little feet trundling beneath him.  So the way it works is I make a face and the game is on.  He starts shouting and running away from me.  He runs through rooms and hallways and I chase him.  When he has run out of real estate and can’t go any further we both turn around and he chases me.  I’m never sure whether it is being chased or chasing that is the most fun.  He squeals no matter what.  But the great part about the game is the laugh.  T has a hearty laugh that is different from his silly laugh or his make-believe laugh when it only seems like something should be funny.  It has to be really funny for him to laugh like this.  It’s the kind of laugh that resonates from deep within and is so infectious, you can’t help but laugh with him.  But as it continues, you can tell that there is no off button to the game; that he will play as long as I will.  The problem being, it takes a lot out of you to laugh like that for long.  You know how your face begins to hurt and you begin to tear up when your body begins to tell you enough.  Like all emotions we were meant to only experience the most intense of them for only short bursts of time.  It has gone too far when you can see the pained look on his face as he continues to laugh and the fact that he is at the same time on the verge of tears.  The problem is that that laugh is the funniest of all.  The blushed cheeks, the deep wide grin, the cackle and the pained look in his eyes as tears run down his cheeks.  It is a scream.  We only let it go on for a bit longer and then try to end it without drama.  But by the time I try to change gears, he’s ready.  I think if he had the will to stop he would say, “no more laughing Poppa, no more get me Poppa, no more.”