I'm certain the little teaser at the end of my last post left you all on the edge of your seats to find out what's been going on in the basement. Good news. The suspense is over. Lets just say our toy room has become a shooting range. I don't ask questions, I just keep the girls upstairs with me and try to attend church service regularly.
He aims... he fires... he hits his target. Mike tells me our boy has skill.
I respond, "Of course he does... he's his fathers son." I like to suck up like that. It's good for the marriage.
Pay no attention to the fact that his target sits on an empty wine box and never mind the stack of wine boxes to the left of the shooting range. It's all part of the experience.
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