Not quite the day of rest . . .

"Mom, guess what?" Ty says with a devilish grin on his face. "It's Sunday afternoon!"
I'm off like a shot, but he catches me handily and before I know it, I'm hanging upside down, twisted in Ty's arms in some kind of half-nelson hell. I scream and fight as usual and Ty just laughs, teases me by almost letting me go and then torking down into some even more painful configuration. It's just like any Sunday afternoon at our house.
Ty is a kid who needs to MOVE. Always has been, but especially now since hormones and teenage angst have taken over his body. I made the observation some months ago that he seemed to be infuriatingly fidgety and "teasy" to everyone in the house on Sundays; what was up with that? Since another of Ty's qualities is his desire to think things through - rare in 16-year-olds, he actually figured himself out.
"You know how on Sundays I have to be quiet and good? Go to church, sticking around home, taking a long nap? Well, I figure by about 5:00 I'm so restless I'm ready to crawl out of my skin! So Sorry, Mom; it's either let me play all day Sunday or I'll drive you all crazy Sunday night . . . " He cocked his eyebrow as he said this, as in "Think she'll go for it?"
Well, no church isn't really an option, so we're just resigned. His sister screams and hollers at him; I've learned that just not reacting gets it over quickly. For now, since he's like Tigger in his attacks; they're unexpected and repeated. I don't know whether I love the fun and the ruckus or hate it because he's so damn strong now that I end up helpless in about 10 seconds flat. . . . the sacrifices I make trying to raise my kids right . . .