I am terribly ticklish.
There is nary a place on my skin which you can touch that, if I question your intentions, you can't tickle me. There are also places, obviously, that will tickle no matter what your intentions.
Jason, on the other hand, is not ticklish. At all.
Baby Girl, being a healthy and happy toddler, loves tickle games. Because she enjoys all of this like a feline strung out on catnip in the herb patch, she also takes great joy from being the tickler. Jason is a dutiful father and apes raucous giggles when her little fingers start waggling in his direction.
Recently, however, he has begun to do this when she scrunches those little hands at his feet.
Then she comes and finds me.
I have looked up quickly to discover my darling husband hunched over his laptop, sniggering at the screen as I duck and jive with my feet, frantically trying to avoid Baby Girl tickle monster.
I am going to be outnumbered by them for the rest of my life. Now I know how Sisyphus felt.