Upon the Holy Blades of Rhindon, Dyrnwyn, and Excalibur, I Assure You That These are No Mere Props

Swordfighters on break.

I made wooden swords for the children this evening. We sat down for supper and I issued a stern edict:

"There will be no swordfighting at the dinner table."

Which I felt was reasonable, and which was obeyed thoroughly by all people at the table under the age of six. Then Becca reaches over, grabs a sword, and invites our son to engage in combat, which he accepts with delight. My daughter and I sit there, shaking heads and eating our home baked pizza, and I continue to entreat my wife to cease battle and return to the quiet pursuit of conversation about cultured topics, like the parallels between tortured anti-heroes such as Old Testament King Saul and former Jedi Darth Vader.

With an intelligence born of frequent experience, I recognized that my authoritative credentials were unsalvageable, so I finished eating in quiet resignation and fury. The battle ended without a clear victor; it also ended without anyone's nose getting whacked, or an errant sword flying into a full plate, so I suppose it could have been worse.

Becca sat down and sighed with contentment.