It is the nine-to-twelve year old boy fantasy, at least for our son. He is able to play video games for hours on a 60-inch screen, with his two girl cousins cheering him on, laughing at his jokes, learning and repeating the secret songs he knows from the bus and his friends. We make them turn off the tv to play shuffleboard or eat dinner or swing some golf clubs or play a family game, but the little trio eventually retreats back to the media room, Ronan with the controls and the girls watching, giggling, directing him how to move.
He is on stage, teaching them songs about Barney that your toddlers should not know with lovely lyrics like
“A-B-C-D-E-F-G Barney is my enemy…” and “Joy to the World that Barney is dead. We barbequed his head…”
and burping tricks and Wii shortcuts. And they wonder–why would anyone make a booby trap? What kind of traps throw boobs? Oh yeah, that’s the thirteen year and older fantasy.
Cousin fun. C