Tickle Time

When I was little, the best things to look forward to were always Tickle Time.

Nowadays, I'm not too keen on being tickled by other people, because a)it's awkward and b)no one on this earth but my dad can do it right. Up until I was literally almost out of middle school, every now and then, when we were finished with dinner or lying around the house on a Saturday night, the brilliant idea would enter our brains, and me or my brother would pipe up excitedly and ask, eyes wide, if we would have Tickle Time.

And if we were lucky, Daddy would say yes.

So we'd push aside the coffee table and I'd hurriedly stuff my hair into a ponytail (even though I knew it would come out in the process) and my mom would settle herself on a chair nearby if she was done with the dishes. Then, without warning, Daddy would drop to all fours and pounce on us in a frenzy of tickle wrestling. Timmy and I would tag team: One would be under Daddy, being tickled wildly, as the other rode astride his back trying to pull him off. But then he would reach behind him and grab us and the tables would turn as the other sibling was attacked.

He knew all our weakest spots, and we invented tickling games that involved being tossed against the couch cushions or held upside down by our ankles. At the end, to wind down, he'd place one of us  on the couch, on top of a pillow, lying on our backs, and make a "sandwich" on our bellies, with the pillow under us as the bread and us as the "meat". He had a different hand motions for each vegetable, cheese, meat, and condiment that he put on the sandwich, each of which involved poking our tightened tummy muscles in various ways, making us giggle uncontrollably. When the massive sandwich was concocted, he'd put another piece of pillow bread on top and shake the whole thing violently to "eat" it.

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It's 2013 now.
I'm sixteen, and Timmy is now 13-year-old, 7th-grade Tim, who's far too cool to giggle.

But today was a good day.

After dinner, Tim and I were planning on watching a movie. We knew the parents would slam us with dish duty before anything enjoyable would be permitted to take place, and so we goofed around a little as we stacked plates on the ever-growing mountain of dishes on the counter.
At one point, he turned around to talk to Mom and I poked him in the ribs. When I got no reaction, I went straight for his armpits and dug in. He ran away, laughing, so naturally an epic chase ensued. We ended up tackling each other on the couch, and I had him pinned. I was tickling him like crazy, and he was doing that belly laugh that he only ever does when he's really ticklish.

Then, out of nowhere, Dad was over us both, and we were both trapped under his iron Tickle Grip. We flailed around on the couch, shrieking with laughter, and all of a sudden, as he got me in my weak spot behind my knee and both of us were digging into Tim's ribs, it was Tickle Time all over again. We were all laughing hysterically, even Dad, but suddenly, deep inside me, I felt like crying.

It had been years since the three of us had done this.

I missed Tickle Time. I missed being a kid.

But it made my day nonetheless.