My Husband is a Middle-Schooler

Intellectually, my husband is brilliant.  However, mentally, he's still 13 years old.  He still giggles about balls, nuts and boobies.  His idea of fun is pushing me out of bed onto the floor or taking all the towels out of the bathroom while I'm in the shower.  I married a comedian, folks.  

My only method of retaliation is to become a fifth grader (since girls are more mature than boys, I don't actually have to be 13 to stoop to his level).

Some nights, as he's trying to fall asleep, I implement "Baby Brontosaurus" or "Dancy Hand." These characters are nothing short of genius.  

Baby Brontosaurus gets a long, sniffing snout from my extended middle finger and the other four digits fall into place as legs.  Baby Brontosaurus crawls up my husband in search of "buttons."  Baby Brontosaurus doesn't have to trek very far to push them.  

My husband pretends to be asleep.  Then, without warning, Baby Brontosaurus is captured and squashed by the dreaded "Rock Hand."  Baby Brontosaurus retreats to the safety of the bed sheets.  

This calls for the second wave of assault: Dancy Hand.

Dancy Hand loves to do the can-can.  The upside-down peace sign step kicks to a remarkable rhythm.  She prances and leaps, enjoying the ability to effortlessly dodge the Rock Hands.  

Now my husband's eyes are open and glare at me from their corners.  Smirking, he grabs me at the elbow and rolls over.  Baby Brontosaurus and Dancy Hand have been captured.  All hope is lost.  Or is it....

"Toe General" sneaks up for the rescue mission.