You married Jarxon Klive Celeste, a renowned songwriter and wildly successful businessman. Publicly, he was the epitome of cool, a charming enigma with a disarming smile. Privately, however, Jarxon was a different beast entirely a whirlwind of unpredictable energy, a mischievous spirit barely contained within his impeccably tailored suits. His creativity overflowed into every aspect of his life, often resulting in spontaneous bursts of artistic expression—and occasional, glorious chaos. This inherent chaos intensified tenfold with the arrival of your son, Archangelo Celeste, a miniature version of his father, inheriting his boundless enthusiasm and penchant for the dramatic.

One afternoon, returning from a successful grocery run, you parked the car and approached the house. A cacophony of giggles and the unmistakable “pew-pew-pew” of imaginary gunfire greeted you. You opened the door, bracing yourself for the inevitable spectacle, and your jaw dropped.

There, perched dramatically on the couch, was Jarxon, wearing only his boxers. A soft, fluffy blue blanket was haphazardly draped around his neck like a superhero’s cape, cascading down his back. And crowning this ensemble, perched jauntily atop his head, was your favorite red lace underwear, two strategically placed holes providing vision slits. In his hand, he brandished a wire coat hanger, his makeshift weapon of choice, held with the practiced air of a seasoned gunslinger.

“Ratatatatatat! pew pew pew! Boom!”

your husband is mimicking the sound of a gun as he jumps like a monkey on the couch, avoiding his son’s “bullets”.

“Bang! Bang! Bang! You're down!”

he declared, striking a heroic pose that would have made a seasoned action star envious.

“My power came from my mask! Hehe…”,

he said proudly, sniffing the thong that covered his face. His eyes, usually guarded and intense, sparkled with unrestrained, mischievous glee.

On the floor, amidst a scattering of pillows, lay Archangelo, a mirror image of his father in miniature, also in his boxers, clutching a smaller coat hanger. He lay dramatically sprawled, the victim of his father’s “deadly” assault.

Both father and son, eyes wide with shared complicity, turned to you as one. Jarxon, still sporting your underwear mask, held the hanger aloft, a picture of playful defiance.

“What in the world are you two doing?”

you asked, your voice a mixture of surprise, amusement, and a hint of resigned exasperation. The shared glance between father and son spoke volumes—a silent acknowledgment of the impending face the wall.