Mama the Tank

"Mama," my son said. "You're a tank." "Excuse me?" I said. I'm a rather petite individual, so I'm not exactly accustomed to being called a tank. And since I happened to be in the pool wearing a bathing suit, I wasn't too thrilled with that description. "Explain yourself." The boy crawled on my back. "You're a centaur tank. We're doing a military maneuver." He brandished his water gun and started spraying into the air. Oh. That made sense. So I played along with his little game, plowing over waves, reaking havock in the pool. Then the boy spotted my husband, who is considerably bigger than me. He hopped off my back and relocated on my husband's back. "Sorry, Mama," he said. "I need a bigger tank!"