Like most little guys, my two boys love to poke. They poke each other. They poke me. They even poke momma – when they can get away with it. About a year ago, I turned this love of poking to my advantage. We were riding in the car at the time and they were being overly rowdy. Their momma was driving, which meant I was on crowd control.<\/p>\n
Feeling inspired, I turned around in my seat so I could see them and held up one finger. They both sort of settled down and looked at it. I’m not the finger wagger in the family<\/a>, so having me hold my finger up was unusual enough to settle them down.<\/p>\n Then I said “Slllllooooooowwwww – POKE!” I dragged the word slow out really long, and as I said it I moved my finger slowly around in a big circle. When I said poke, of course, I suddenly and quickly poked one of them in the belly.<\/p>\n It was an instant hit and I’ve been playing slow poke with them ever since.<\/p>\n You can probably guess what’s coming.<\/p>\n Last week, they were at something called “vacation bible school” (a day camp at a local church) when J caught a whole bunch of kids poking each other (she’s volunteering at the church). As she and the teacher disbanded the pack of rowdies, they discovered my oldest was at the center of it. Of course.<\/p>\n “But momma,” he said. “we were doing slow poke! That’s okay!”<\/p>\n Whoops.<\/p>\n Apparently, he’s been teaching it to all his friends – and they’ve been taking it back to their families. All of whom now know that I’m the source of their children’s renewed interest in poking.<\/p>\n