I’m a bit of a chicken-baby. I’ll explain the term “chicken-baby” for those who are new. A chicken is scared, right? Well, a chicken-baby is super scared. That’s where I come in. Oh crap. My brain just supplied an alternate view. Maybe a chicken-baby hasn’t grown into its fear yet, and the chicken is more afraid than the chicken-baby!!! Well, SHUT UP, BRAIN!! I refuse to change my naming convention. I’ve been using the term chicken-baby for two freaking decades and not ONCE have you ever raised a complaint. So, you know what? SHUT IT! We are sticking with chicken-baby. (NOTE: UD is a great resource. I’m not trying to hate on it, but it has chicken-baby all messed up. They are wrong. Do not use the UD definition for chicken-baby. And also, I do not eat KFC chicken.) Anyway, Matthew takes advantage of this fact and likes to wait until it’s dark in an unfamiliar location and look off into the distance behind me as if he sees something that might be alarming. Then, he’ll look back at me and continue with our conversation or whatever and I’ll be left going, “WHAT? Is there someone back there? Something? Should we be running? Should we be preparing for some sort of attack? I’ll unconsciously begin flexing my legs to prepare for flight. It’s my go to reaction. Fight is for Bad Asses. Flight is for Chicken-Babies. The next morning, depending on how long Matthew played his little joke on me, I’ll often have some tightness in my “RUN AWAY” muscles. He has also apparently taught this little fun activity to Lexi so that she could do this to me while he was out of town. Guess when a chicken-baby is more scared? When the chicken-baby is down a family member. Lexi and I were downstairs in the dark house. It was very late, and the kids were asleep. Lexi decided it was game time. She began flicking glances to the dark staircase. Then she would flick a glance to the dark screen porch over my other shoulder. By the time she was done with me, I was a complete wreck. So, well-played, Matthew. Also, well-played, Lexi.