When Daddy gets on the floor to play with me, he rolls a ball to my right hand. I pick it up, put it in my mouth, then throw it back to him. Then he rolls it back to me.
We do this a couple of times together. Then we move on. And when I say "we move on", I mean I move on.
Still, it's fun. He moves slightly back with each throw, and I gotta say, it's more challenging but more rewarding too. I guess this is what they call "having a catch", and I guess we'll be doing this for a long time, or at least until Daddy's arm falls off.
That makes me happy.
Not his arm falling off.
But the game of catch.
His arm falling off makes me sad.
Unless it happens in a way that's hilarious.