Welcome.

When we moved the entire playroom downstairs, we swore we would soon get a new ball pit. The old one had really bitten the dust (they deflate every couple of months or so...there is only so much a blow-up pool can take).
When it happens, it feels kind of like that part on Harry Potter and the something-or-other when Prof. Dumbledore's bird ignites and Harry is like, "Professor, your bird...it just...caught fire...there was nothing I could do..." And for some reason it's one of my most favorite parts of any movie ever. I have no idea why. But anyway, when the ball pit starts to go, that's what it feels like. Only without the cute British accent. Though sometimes I have one in my head.
(Now you are wishing I was having this whole conversation only in my head.)

Anyway, it took us long enough but now we finally have a suitable, play-able ball pit again.
Meet...um...Seven.
Yes, we shall name them after their number in the succession of ball pits.

Seven.

And the hairdo that he inspires.

Now.
With the addition of Seven, we were able to get out the bags of balls that were still in storage from 'the move' because Six was so deflated at the time he could not handle all the balls being put back in.
Of course, the kids wanted to be involved in the reintroduction of all the balls.

I can really understand why.

Now that the ball pit was re-established and full to capacity (though really, I think we need more, don't you?), it was time for some good old fashioned rough-housing.

I just now thought that maybe I should link back to some old posts of the kids playing in the ball pit with Daddy. But we would literally be here all night, wouldn't we now? And we don't want that, do we now?

Welcome to the family, Seven. I sincerely hope your stay is long and your demise only marginally traumatic.


(...nobody tell him that we already have Eight waiting in the storage closet...)