Thursday, December 30, 2010


I'm not sure exactly how this goes...  Is there a specific ritual I need to follow?  I'm not Catholic but I feel an intense need to make a proper confession.  Should I make the sign of the Cross?  Maybe I'll just wing it.  That method seems to work fairly well for me in the rest of my life. 

Ok.  Well...  Ummmmm  Universe?  I've done something I'm ashamed of and I need someone to absolve me of my incredibly heavy guilt.
The kids are out of school on winter break and so a few days ago I worked from home.  I had a lot to catch up on, having been out the week before Christmas, and so I was up at the computer pounding away, thinning out my overflowing email account, editing documents that marketing needed "yesterday", etc..etc...etc.....  And I let the boys play Mario Kart while I was working. 

That doesn't sound so bad, right?

Well it IS bad, Universe.  Because...... 
I let them play for... (Gulp.........  Just say it Kafsky.  Go on.  Get it out there. No sense in pretending....)
Universe....... I let them play for (whispering) 8 and a half hours. 
9:30am until 6:00pm.
Until their eyes were frozen wide and mush was dripping from their ears.
Oh God, I wish I was exaggerating -- even the tiniest bit -- but I'm not.  Not at all. 
There was mush.  And difficulty blinking.
And as if that's not enough, there's more.
I didn't even bother to fix them lunch.  In fact, I didn't feed them AT ALL.  And while I can't be positive, I don't think they ever took a break to pee.  (Of course, along with that "not eating" thing, they weren't consuming any liquids either.  So who knows? Maybe their little bodies were too dehydrated to muster up the fluids needed to pee.) 

Universe, I usually do pretty well with the mommy-guilt thing.  I don't normally beat myself up or over-think my parenting tactics because the way I figure it, most everybody is doing the best they can with what they've got.  Lord knows I am.  But this one...?  This 8-and-a-half-hour Mario Kart marathon thing?  I'm struggling here and I need you to assuage my guilt.

Tell me it's ok.  Or - if not necessarily "OK" - that this one instance doesn't make me the number one contender for the World's Shittiest Working Mother. 

Saturday, November 27, 2010

That must have been a really good scrub.....

Landis is a LONG bath taker. He's always messing around in the tub, never really getting down to the business of washing his hair or his body unless you go in and nag him every 5 minutes.

Look. I'm all for a good soak too. But can we wash first, THEN soak? Please? It would make my night easier. And contrary to what Landis obviously believes, I don't enjoy being a nag.

So the other night, after I'd been in the bathroom a few times reminding him to actually WASH himself, I went back in to see if there was a snowball's chance in Hell that he'd decided to follow instructions.

He was laying as far down in the tub as he could, ears underwater, eyes closed.

"Landis?" I say.

His eyes open.

"Have you actually washed yourself?"

He nods.

"Really?" I ask him skeptically.

"Yes." He says as he sits up.

"Did you wash your hair?"


"Did you wash your body?"


"Everywhere?" I ask. Because let's face it......He likes to do a half-assed job.

"Yes EVERYWHERE!" he replies, clearly exasperated with me and my questions. "Even my VAGINA!"

Friday, November 19, 2010

How to defend your woman

Gibson's newest obsession is obtaining a "six-pack". The abdominal kind. (Sigh...) Are you wondering why an 8 year old would care about that? Me too. To be honest, I don't even know where he heard the term because he most certainly didn't pick it up around here. I mean, I try to work out on a regular basis, but my fitness regimen has everything to do with the fact that I consume red meat, cheese, potatoes and beer in large quantities, and nothing at all to do with chiseling my gut. Unless you consider the ability to button your pants consistently (without cutting off the circulation to your brain) to be a sub-category of chiseling. I, for one, don't.

He's so committed to his abs that on our last vacation, Gibson spent time doing calisthenics on the riverside. "Mom! Watch this!" he'd yell, and then take off down the beach using "fast feet" drills to dodge the rocks along the bank. When he ran out of beach space he'd turn and sprint back, drop at my feet and do push ups followed by a few sets of sit-ups. He finished his routine by jumping back and forth 20 times over a line he'd drawn in the sand with his toe. And come to think of it, he may have thrown some jumping jacks in there somewhere too.... All in the name of the almighty Six Pack. (My routine was a little more mellow. It consisted of sitting in a chair at the river's edge, watching the sun set and doing arm curls. With 12 oz. "weights".)

When he digs snacks out of the pantry after school he studies the labels. "Is this good for my six-pack?" He shovels salad or green beans or broccoli into his mouth at dinner occasionally explaining - as he pats his stomach - that vegetables are good for your six-pack.

Six pack, six pack, six pack. The kid is 8.

So the other day he wanders up to the stove where I'm making dinner, pulls up his shirt, smacks himself in the stomach a few times for good measure and says "Hey Mom! Wanna' see my SIX PACK?!?!?!" Then he draws himself up to his full height and flexes with all his might - arms out to the side, elbows bent at 90 degree angles, look of intense concentration on his face - his entire body a solid little rock. "Hnnnnnnnnnnggggggg!!!!!"

And I guess I was feeling a little squirrely, what with all that hopped up testosterone floating around the kitchen, so I spun around, whipped MY shirt up exposing my not-nearly-as-solid-abdominal muscles and replied "Yo' Gibson!! Wanna' see MY six-pack?!?!" I gave my gut a few obnoxious smacks, raised my arms above my head, and flexed every muscle in my body - going through the motions of the best pose-down I could muster. Which, of course, made not a damn bit of difference to my physique because there is no way in the WORLD you can see any bit of muscle fiber under my pudgy little belly. And that, my friends, was the point. Because, you see, I'm funny. (Or at least I think I'm funny, and frankly that's all that really matters....)

Gibson though, didn't get my joke. So he's standing there, head cocked sideways, taking in my pose-down with a look of concerned confusion on his face. "Ummmm...Mom?" he says, and I can tell that he's going to try to let me down easy. "That's not a six pack............. That's chubby."

His baffled response totally cracks me up, because yes. Yes it is. See? It's a joke.

And then Mike,........Mike..... supportive husband that he is, decides that Gibson has just insulted me and jumps immediately to my defense.
"Well Gibson," he says indignantly, "she HAS had TWO babies!"

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...................... Thanks?

It's not that I don't appreciate what he was trying to do. I do. And I wasn't really offended. Really. I promise. But since the opportunity has presented itself, let me go ahead and use this interaction as a "Teachable Moment". Fellas? Lean in here. I'm gonna' share a little secret with you.
A little closer...
That's it.. Are you ready?
OK. Here's the deal......
When you perceive that your wife has been insulted and you (the fabulous husband that you are) spring to her defense, it's best to just say that you think she looks great.... as opposed to justifying why it's OK -- in fact, perfectly reasonable -- that she's a little bit fat.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Inside the mind of an 8 year old...

"Oh GROSS!!"
"What's the matter?"
"Didn't you see that PICTURE?!?!?!"
"What picture?"
"There was a picture of a knee!! AND THEY GREW HAIR ON IT!!!!!!!!!!!"

Hmmmmm.... I guess baldness isn't something on an 8 year-old's radar screen......

Saturday, July 17, 2010


Hey there, blogosphere! You still there? Yes? Oh good. Because I have something for you.....

I know, I know.... It's been a while. But you know....... I've been working my arse off, and after a really long day I have a hard time sitting back down at the computer to bang out the details of the latest escapade. Not that there haven't been escapades. Hardly a day goes by without producing some sort of usable material. It's just... You know..? Mama's TIRED.

But I have a good one, blogosphere. One I think you'll enjoy. So I'll tell the story and you can tell me if you thought it was worth getting back on the horse for, OK?

So the boys have picked up the elementary-school habit of telling "Your Mama's SO fat" jokes. (On a side note, we've discovered that when Gibson tells them, he thinks there's nothing funnier in the world. However, when Landis wanders into the same territory, Gibson gets really offended that anyone would dare speak of his mother that way. I mean jump-up-ready-for-a-fight-pissed, y'all. It's hilarious. But I digress...)

We've taken the liberty to change the format from "Your Mama's SO fat...." to "Your butt is SO big..." which is only mildly better, I know. But in our household, we like to go straight to the source. Hurl those insults directly. ("I'm not talkin' about yo' mama! I'm talkin' about YOU!") It's somehow more acceptable......

Anyway...... We're all crammed in the car on a 3 hour road trip, and to pass the time, someone starts in with the big-butt jokes. We go a few rounds, and we're all cracking up because the boys say things that barely make sense - and of course they think it's hysterical.

So Mike jumps in: "Hey Landis.." he says, "YOUR butt is SO big that when you pull down your pants it says 'WIDE-LOAD'!"


Landis wastes no time retaliating. "Hey DADDY!" he replies. "YOUR butt is SO big that when YOU pull down YOUR pants it says F#@K!"

The car immediately goes from loud guffaws to complete silence.....

Landis, for his part, is waiting for the uproarious laughter. Now, it's important to note that he talks with a little lisp, and it was kind of loud in the car -- what with all the ha-ha-ing going on -- so before we totally and completely crap ourselves, we want to be sure that we heard what we think we heard.

I twist myself around in my seat so I'm facing him: "Uh......Landis? What did you say?"

"I said.... "DADDY! YOUR butt is SO big that when YOU pull down YOUR pants it says F#@K!" He delivers the exact same line with the exact same enthusiasm, and once again waits for uproarious laughter, because he knows that his joke is downright hysterical and that we just didn't hear him correctly the first time. He's poised on the edge of his seat, eyebrows raised, head cocked sideways, waiting for it..... waiting for it.... waiting for it......

Silence ensues. Mike is staring at him in the rear-view mirror. I'm staring at him all slack-jawed and twisted around from the passenger seat. Gibson is staring at him with eyes as big as dinner plates. Nobody says a thing. Except Landis, who slowly brings his hand up to his mouth, his eyes widening, and whispers "Is that a bad word?"

Gibson nods with so much vigor, I think his little head is going to snap off his neck. (Which, frankly, is a surprise to me. How does he know that?) "YES!" Mike barks, gripping the steering wheel for dear life, trying desperately to drive while simultaneously trying to meet Landis's eyes in the rear-view. "Yes it is."

"Where did you hear that word?" I ask him.

"I didn't hear it." he replies.

"Well how do you know it then?"

Guess how he knows it? He saw it on the bus seat. And do you want to know where he was when he saw it on that bus seat? He was headed to a field trip. With 70 other children, who by the way, are mostly 5, 6 and 7 year olds. He saw it on the bus I arranged to borrow for our day camp kids.


Y'all.... He learned it at the day camp that mommy runs. And when that realization sunk in -- that I had unwittingly contributed to our child's new vocabulary -- I laughed. (To which Mike barked "NOT APPROPRIATE right now!" And he was right. But oh my God, it was hard to control myself.)

Turns out that Gibson - along with countless other children - had seen it too. Apparently it was written on at least 3 seats, but someone pointed it out to one of the counselors who, thank God, covered it all with medical tape out of the first aid kits.

I won't bore you with all the details of the entire conversation except to say that we had a little talk about the F-word, how rude it is, and how he should never, ever, ever, ever, ever say it again. He agreed.

And then we got on with our road trip -- sans the Big-Butt jokes -- and looked for other, more G-rated ways to pass the time.

If there's an up-side to this little incident -- and I think there is -- it's this: Our 6 year-old can read. Really, truly read.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

A very long story about discussing the "Birds and the Bees" with your child. (And perhaps a teeny, tiny, small lesson about what NOT to do.)

Before we officially get started here, let me warn you that in this post I will use the word "vagina" multiple times. In fact, I think I'll edit that statement to say that in this post I will use the word "vagina" LOTS of times. And I might use descriptives like "bulging". And there's a good chance I'll use the word "vulva" too. If that makes you squirmy, I recommend that you stop right now. Seriously. I mean it.

Still reading? OK then.

Here we go....

We've been having a multi-layered, years-long discussion with Gibson on the topic of pregnancy and the creation of babies. It all started a few years ago when a number of his Aunts were pregnant at the same time and anytime we got together as an extended family, there were these huge bellies in his face no matter where he looked. And so it was that one day when he was about 4, he asked me, "Mom? How do those babies get out of there? Do they get them out with huge scissors?" So we sat together and we had a little anatomy lesson. I explained all about how women have a uterus AND a stomach in their bellies, and how babies grow inside the uterus, and how women have different parts than boys -- (which he already knew since I'd had to assure him a few times as a 3 year-old that my penis hadn't fallen off) -- and that most babies come out through an opening right here (pointing) called a vagina. When we were all done, he nodded and said "So a baby comes out from where you pee?"

"Yeah.. Basically." I answered.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

And I looked at his inquiring, innocent blue eyes and said "LIKE A $&#(*$)%# SONOFABITCH!!"

Ha! Just kidding. What I really said -- with a laugh -- was "Like crazy, sweetheart. It hurts like crazy." He mulled this new information over while I braced myself for the inevitable question about how those babies get IN there in the first place. But it didn't come. Instead he said "OK." and that was that. For a couple of years.....

Then, one random day when he was six, he asked. "Mom? How are babies made?"

Luckily I'd recently had a conversation with my brilliant friend Janna, who said that she'd gotten some advice about not going into too much detail when that question first comes up. That we should simply answer the question they are asking. And that sometimes, they're not really looking for a huge long answer.... So I tried it.

I explained all about how men have these teeny tiny things called sperm, too small to be seen with the human eye, that are in their bodies -- in their testicles to be exact. And that women have teeny tiny eggs, too small to be seen with the human eye, inside their bodies -- inside these things called the ovaries. And that it takes a sperm (gesturing with one hand) to come together with an egg (gesturing with the other hand) to make a baby.

"Hmmmmmmm...." he nodded. "So women have eggs? And men have sperm? And when they come together they can make a baby?"

"Yep. It's called fertilization. And then the baby grows inside the uterus. And you remember how it comes out, right?"

"Yeah... It comes out from where you pee... AND it HURTS!" (Because apparently I gave my previous answer a little too emphatically.)

"Yep. So do you have any more questions about it?"

"No. That answers it."

"Are you sure.....?"

"Yeah. I've got it."

And then he went outside to play. And apparently to process for a little while.

Now cut to 3 weeks ago.

Gibson is sitting on the toilet, apparently contemplating some of life's mysteries while he takes care of "business".

He sticks his head out of the open bathroom door - because you have to be over the age of 7 around here to consider shutting it in the first place - and yells for me to come here. He has an important question for me.

When I show up in the door frame he hits me with this: "Mom? I was just thinkin'..... HOW does that baby get in there in the first place?"

"Well..." I start, "You know how men have sperm........"

"Yes. In their testicles." he tells me.

"......and women have eggs?"

He nods. "Yes. On their feet."

"Uhhhh... No.. That's in their OVARIES. Not 'on their feet'. Ovaries. Inside here, OK?"

Oh -- OK he's got it now. Not on their feet. (Though to be fair I totally get how he went there..)

"And how they have to come together for a baby to start to grow?" I offer.

Yep. He's got that already.

"So, Gibson, are you asking me HOW the sperm and the egg come together in the first place?"


"OK....." I say, and I go ahead and make myself comfortable on the floor of the bathroom because I figure we're going to be here a while.

And so I start in explaining all about how women and men have different body parts and how they sort of fit together like a puzzle piece. I go on about how a uterus and a vagina are kind of like a balloon (thank you again for your brilliant advice, Janna) and how this part right here is like the vagina, and how the bigger part is like the uterus? See? And the same way a balloon is stretchy, a uterus is too! And once the baby is ready, it comes down and out of this part -- the vagina. And see, you know how your penis sticks out from your body? Well, it fits right in the vagina like this.. (index finger into end of balloon) ...and that's how the sperm gets from the man's body into the woman's body and finds the egg. And then BAM! The sperm fertilizes the egg, and that's how the baby starts to grow.

And as I am sitting in the door frame of the bathroom, explaining all of this, Mike walks in the door from work. Here's the piece of conversation he walks into: "And see the penis fits inside the vagina like this..." and I hear his footsteps pause, then an audible groan, followed by an "Oh My Gawd" as he makes a quick exit to the kitchen. Apparently someone isn't interested in joining in on our conversation about penises and vaginas today.

Anyway... We get through all of that, and I ask Gibson if he understands how it works. He does. And then I probe for any more questions. He doesn't have any. "Well, when you have any more, you can always ask Mommy and daddy. We know how it all works and we're always happy to explain to you anything you want to know. OK?"


"Gibson," I venture "Are your friends talking about this?"

He snaps straight up on the toilet and says, emphatically "NO! nonononononononononnonono...." Which is pretty much proof positive that they are.

"Well, my friends used to talk about it.." I offer.

"They did?" He's intrigued.

"Good God, he's only 7!" Mike yells from the kitchen.

"Yes." I tell him. "It's normal for people to be curious and have questions. And we want you to know that you can always come to us. We'll always answer your questions." (Though from the way Mike is all squirmy in the kitchen, I think I should have said 'You can always come to ME.')

Gibson is satisfied, we finish our discussion, and I point out, quietly, to Mike that our son DOES play with all the neighborhood boys -- some of whom are 5th graders. SOMEONE is pretty clearly talking about it.

He grunts. Or snorts. Or basically makes that man-noise that means "I'm not really interested in talking about this at the moment...."

Now folks, the responsible thing for me to have done right then - or the following day -- would have been to go the the book store and get a book about how babies are made. Because a "thinking/planning" parent would have realized that the bathroom doorway talk certainly wasn't going to be our only discussion about it. But did I do that? Nope. Because "thinking/planning" isn't really my parenting strong point.

And so it was that a few nights later, Gibson invites me into the fort he built. And there, as we were snuggled into the relative safety of all the blankets and pillows he says "Mom? You know how you said that I could always ask you any of my questions?"

I nod. "Sure."

"I have some more...."

"OK. What are they?"

"Well.... I've really been wondering..... HOW does the baby come out of there?"

"How does the baby come out of the vagina?"


"Well... The vagina is stretchy... you know... Like the balloon?"

"Yeah.. But HOW?"

Hmmmm.. I'm befuddled. Words clearly aren't cutting it. And, Dang it! I should have gotten a book! Why didn't I do that?! He was asking questions weeks ago! DUH......!!!

"Gib, I should have gotten you a book. I'm sorry I didn't. Hang on... Let me see what I can find.."

I climb out of the fort and scour our bookshelves for "What to Expect When You're Expecting", because I think it has pictures. But then I remember that I gave it away. I mean, once you've been through it, you pretty much know what to expect....

And then it hits me! Google! You can find anything on Google!

I go to the computer and pull up Google Images. I put in "pregnancy" and I get exactly what I'm looking for. Drawn images like this:

"OK -- See this? This is how a baby looks when it is first starting to grow....."
Bingo! He's totally into it. Things are clicking.....
We talk about how crazy it looks in this stage.
We talk about where the head will be, where the eye is, what part will turn into the arms, the legs, the spine.....
We flip through each week, talking about all the changes the baby goes through, and how long it takes for it to grow all the way into a baby that's ready to be born.

We talk about the umbilical cord, and how it feeds the baby.

We talk about how the baby doesn't "breathe" in there. We talk about the amniotic fluid....

We talk about what it looks like when the baby is ready to be born. How the head is down. How it pushes on this muscle called the cervix. I point to the vagina on the screen and say "Here.... see? This is the vagina. See how the baby's head is going to come down through here?"
He does.

And then he says "But HOW? HOW does that happen?

"Well... The uterus will start to have contractions, like this.." and I make my hands into a uterus shape and I contract them. "And see this?" I point at the screen. "The cervix? See how it can open? When the uterus starts contracting like this, one side of the cervix will open this way, and the other will open this way... And it makes a pathway down through the vagina. See?"

He does. But he has one more question. "HOW? HOW does that happen?"

"It stretches. It's a muscle."


"Well... It just does! It comes down through there. See? Right there? It comes down through there!"

BUT HOW?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! HOW???!?!? HOW?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

And then do you know what I did? I got all exasperated because how else do you explain it? I scratched my head. And I got another idea. "Well... Hang on a minute and I'll show you."

Then....THEN.......I Googled "Childbirth, Crowning".

(And if you are reading this with your hand over your mouth in horror thinking "Oh NO she didn't!" I want you to know that "Oh YES... I did.")

And I opened up a picture -- a real live photograph that someone had the aduacity to take in the delivery room and post on the internet -- of a woman in the midst of delivering her child. There on the screen was an enormous buldging vulva (I warned you) with a small, dark, wrinkly head making it's way out of it.

I pointed at the screen and said "That's how. THAT'S a vagina, and THAT'S a baby's head making it's way out of it. Right there!"

And Gibson? He started screaming. Screaming in horror. "OHMYGOD!!!OHMYGOD!!!OHMYGOD!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S DISGUSTING!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!! OHMYGOD!!!!!!!!!! IT LOOKS LIKE........IT LOOKS LIKE AN ALIEN!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Well that's how." I told him and clicked out of Google about as quickly as I could. Gibson, for his part, turned on his heel and ran screaming down the stairs as fast as he could go.

So, I'm sure that I've now tramautized him for a few good years. And to be fair, I don't remember it being so ...well.... so graphic. I mean, I had a mirror. I saw it. But in hindsight I realized that my focus was not at all on what it actually looked like, and more on the fact that I needed to see that that child was going to come out of me before I died. So, you know.. I saw it... but I didn't really "see" it. There's a small difference of perspective there.

So if you are in the throws of discussing conception and childbirth with your child, and you are considering using Google Images as a resource? My advice to you is this: "BE YE NOT SO STUPID."**

Really. Don't.


** Advice taken, word, for word, from hilarious blogger Heather B. Armstrong on She was doling out advice on not blogging about work, but I find that it works in this pretense too. She's a funny, funny woman, who I'm sure could beat me if we had a post contest about who could use the word vagina more frequently. And though she certainly doesn't need me to promote her, if you haven't had your giggle for the day, you should go there now.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Further proof that I am an irresponsible mother......

Because my work involves programs for the younger set, I was invited to a pre-school fair the other day. The fair was being put on by a local Mom's Club and had been advertised all over the community, so there was a huge turnout. The programs I run are more along the lines of "Parents Morning Out" drop-in-when-you-need-it programs, as opposed to traditional preschools, but there were enough similarities that I thought it'd be a good event to attend. And it was -- there was a lot of interest in what we do -- but that's not my point.

My point is that I stood there, in the midst of a sea of stroller pushing mothers, watching with unbelieving eyes what was happening all around me. And I'm not saying that what was happening was bad.... Just that it was so foreign to me. Mothers were walking from pre-school director to pre-school director and interviewing them about their curriculum. Seriously hard-core interviewing them. Like these pre-school directors were heads of state. They brought pads of paper and pens! And they very studiously took notes as they all talked.
  • "And do you have a foreign language curriculum?"
  • "Do you have weekly themes?" And what's your process for structuring that?"
  • "And what is your music curriculum like? Because dance and movement and music? It's VERY important in our household and I need to make sure you will reflect that here."
  • "What, exactly, does your typical day look like?"
  • "Are you a peanut-free zone?"
  • "What sorts of leadership opportunities will my child have?"
  • "How much reading do you do? I really want my child to be reading."
  • "What does your free-play area look like? Is there a kitchen? I want my son to be exposed to kitchens and cooking."
  • "What do your mornings look like when other parents are dropping off? Is there structure? I don't want my child just milling around in the mornings....."
nod. nod. scribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribble...............

And I stood there and laughed to myself. Because I'm not sure what it says about my parenting, but here's the process I went through to figure out what pre-school my child would attend:
  • "Yo'! Amy...."
  • "Whad' up, Kafsky?"
  • "Are you sending Will to preschool this year?"
  • "Yeah."
  • "Where are you going?"
  • (She tells me the name)
  • "Do you like it?"
  • "Love it! The director rocks. You'd love her."
  • "Awesome."
Then I called them up and registered him over the phone. And I'm going to admit right here in this public forum for all to see that I am so irresponsible I didn't even tour the facility.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010


Attilla The Hun showed up at my house on New Year's Eve, and I accidentally let him in. It wasn't really my fault because he was cleverly disguised as my sweet little niece, so I didn't recognize him until it was too late. But it was him alright, looking for new territories to ravage. And also concealed somewhere in that little pint-sized body was his vicious army, hungry for blood and poised for invasion. They're amazing riders, those viral horsemen. And they knew just how to infiltrate the enemy. Skillfully. Stealthily. On command. And as night was falling, the command came hurling from her small body in the form of two lengthy barfs in the middle of our kitchen. Those well-armed, toxic little warriors were off and running, and there was no stopping the onslaught that was about to befall us.

We fought back (valiantly even!) but to no avail. One at a time, they took us all down. There's a reason Atilla and his army of Huns have a reputation for being cruel. Rapacious.* Fearsome. Trust me y'all. It's well earned. In fact, I'd describe the aftermath of the war-zone for you just to prove my point if my own mother wasn't involved. But I won't. Because frankly, she'd kill me.

But there were a few highlights that came out of that horrible night. I will warn you that they are, naturally, based around bodily-function humor. But even though they're kind of gross, they're still funny. And of course they are all attributed to Gibson -- the poor kid -- who bore the brunt of this brutal invasion. My sweet little Gibby, who, without meaning to tends to be one of the funniest kids I know, and can somehow make me crack up even when I feel like I want to die. Which is a gift. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

And so, without further ado, I present to you:

"Sincere Questions and a Brief Conversation with Dad over the Toilet in the Bathroom at 3:00 in the Morning".

Gibson: (Understanding that he is heaving from the very depths of his small body, yet not really understanding the concept of stomach bile.) Dad? Am I barfing pee?

Gibson: (After a particularly long and suffocating heave in which his body is trying to push out substance that is no longer there.) Dad? I think my barf is trying to kill me.

Gibson: (Speaking to his own body while hanging over the toilet.) Barf? Why do you hurt so much?

And my personal favorite......

Dad: (Cleaning up the first barf that happened on the floor.) Hmmmmmmm... Looks like there's some gum in there.

Gibson: Ummmm.... It's not mine.


* Are you impressed with my word? I was proud of myself when I wrote it. Here's the definition in case, like me, you need it:
1. Taking by force, plundering
2. Greedy, Ravenous
3. Subsisting on live prey.

Totally appropriate, no?

In case you are wondering, here's Atilla, in disguise:

You can see why I didn't recognize him.