The grandparents gifted Noah with a tiny remote control helicopter. It’s too cute to take seriously, so I didn’t object when the living room became an airport. The new pilot seemed to need a lot of practice. Apparently, teeny helicopters have extremely sensitive controls.
One second, the helicopter was quietly weaving it’s way across the living room. The next second, I felt the thwack of the helicopter gently smacking the back of my head. Then, I felt the blades, spinning, whirring and winding my hair like spaghetti on a fork.
Noah began screaming instantly, “Don’t move! You might break it.” I began hopping around, doing what we will call, for absolutely no reason, the “June bug in my hair dance.” It’s a pointless routine that involves reaching back to swat it away, but flapping about because you are too creeped out to actually touch the bug, I mean, helicopter.
After what felt like forever, but was really only minutes, the helicopter let go of my hair and slipped to the ground, unharmed. I spun around to give Noah the look and he doubled over . . . laughing.
I’ve heard the helicopter humming since, but when I enter the room, it vanishes and leaves behind children with giant grins on their faces.