Bucket Wars

Not just for food storage any more.

Son Two is tall.

In his stocking feet, six-foot-eight. Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.

I have a close family friend.

I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.

Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.

She makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.

In fact, the word 'feisty' might describe her perfectly.

ST used to tease her about her height.

Or lack thereof.

I should point out that this woman has six children of her own. She could give it right back.

One day, she and ST had been exchanging insults.

After a particularly pointed comment which ended with his pretending to put an elbow on the top of her head and using her as a fence post, she tried something a little more proactive.

“Oh!” she said. Nearby was a bucket of honey.

Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.

Moving on . . .

She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.

I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.

“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do now?”

ST merely stepped backwards.

“Oh!” She said again. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him.

Then she stepped up once more.

“Ha!” she said a second time.

He stepped back once more.

“Oh!”

This went on for some time.

She pushed that bucket of honey all over the kitchen.

Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.

Hmm.

I wonder if we could market this idea on a global scale . . .