I married a billy goat.

I live with two billy goats.


Carl came to me the other day and with a concerned look, he asked, "What's wrong with my head?!"


Upon examination, I determined it was a bruise.  Right smack dab in the top middle of his forhead.


See, Saturday, he helped some friends move.  "Did you hit your head?" I asked.


A sheepish grin overtook his face and he nodded.  I was thinking an explanation of some dresser drawer that slid out and bonked him in the head was to come.  Instead, this was the mental image I was presented with.

Carl had head-butted Austin.

I asked him why on earth he would headbutt anybody, and he said it's what his dad used to do to him.  I told him I was concerned that he was playing a bit too rough if he could leave a mark, and declared our home head-butting free.  I don't want any concussions in this house, ya hear?  

I'm sure there will still be playful head-butting going on BETWEEN THE BOYS, but if it leaves a mark, it's too hard.  Agree?