Laughter, Claws, and Couch Combat
Let me paint a scene for you: it’s late evening. The house is quiet(ish). Dishes are done (or at least relocated to the sink with intention). I’m on the couch, minding my own business—by which I mean I’m absolutely poking at Scott, flicking his phone screen, annoying him just enough to get attention.
And then it begins.
The Couch Tickle War.
Now, before you judge me, understand this: this is our love language.
Not roses. Not serenades. Not candlelit dinners.
No, no—pinning me to the couch in a tickle-induced rage is apparently how Scott shows affection.
Let’s start with this fun fact: I HATE having my feet tickled.
Hate it. Loathe it. I would rather step on a Lego barefoot while listening to Spencer blast Minecraft YouTube videos at full volume.
So, of course, that’s exactly where Scott goes first.
One minute I’m tossing a couch pillow at him. The next, I’m flat on my back, one leg pinned, and he’s going to town on my feet like it’s a contact sport. I’m shrieking “STOP IT” while simultaneously laughing like I’ve lost all grip on reality. He never knows if I’m having a meltdown or living my best life—and honestly, neither do I.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Oh no, once the foot tickling begins, the man transforms into a full-blown chaos goblin. He grabs both my arms, twists them into some yoga position I definitely wasn’t trained for, and tickles every sensitive spot he’s ever catalogued. Ribs. Neck. Armpits. Spine. Apparently, nothing is off limits.
I fight back, of course. I thrash. I twist. I squirm like a worm in a frying pan. Occasionally, I escape a hand. That’s when the claws come out. I grab, I scratch, I squeeze anything within reach—shirt, skin, hair, possibly a kidney.
That’s usually when the legs start bleeding. Not bad! Just a light exfoliation via fingernails.
And one night, during a break in the action, I looked down at his poor, scratched-up legs and, through my wheezing laughter, said, “You have meth legs.”
It stuck. He now proudly calls them his battle wounds.
It’s a running joke in the house. Spencer even said, “Mom, people are gonna start thinking he climbs chain-link fences at midnight.” Honestly? Not far off.
Does Scott stop? Of course not. He just readjusts, pins me in a new contorted position, and starts again.
Eventually, the war ends. Always the same way.
Me: lying in a heap. Hair a mess. Eyes watering.
Laughing so hard I pee just a little. (Thanks, Spencer, for that particular postpartum perk.)
Scott, breathless and proud, declares victory. But we both know: fine. He wins that round.
And then, somehow, it happens again the next night. And the next. And the next.
We’ve been bruised. We’ve been scratched.
But we’ve also laughed our faces off more times than I can count.
Honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because tickling, chaos, laughter, and near-injury?
That’s just how we say I love you.
