Tastes Like Nuthin'

A few weeks ago I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a long time, and she told me that she missed my blog.  And I thought, you know what?  I miss my blog too.  There's something cathartic - and fun, too - about sitting down and documenting the antics of our household.  It's lack of time - not lack of material - that keeps me from posting.  So I got back on here, and HOLY COW, people!  It's been a year.  A full YEAR - almost to the day - since I wrote anything in this space.  And that blows my mind because...honestly? WHERE has that time gone?  Sheesh....

So....let's get up to speed here. 

I guess I'll start with Sam, our family dog of 12 years that we had to put down in January.  He was a big old dopey hundred-and-seven pound lovable yellow lab who was riddled with arthritis and fatty tumors.  He shed all over the house, had horrible gas (like the "this might suffocate you in your sleep" kind), bulldozed down any unsuspecting person who had the unfortunate luck to ring our doorbell, ate your food when  you weren't looking, and was generally a giant pain in the ass.  And I loved him. And I suppose because we loved him so much, it seemed the kindest thing to do for him when he couldn't really walk, get up or down, was in obvious pain, and was losing control of his bowels.  But that didn't make it any easier.

We held a "service" for him the in backyard that included a small bonfire, each of us taking turns reading our own individual "letters to Sam" and a song that Gibson spent days composing all by himself.  His solo was tender and heartfelt and atrociously off-key.  It was hard to keep a straight face and be really serious as he poured out his feelings through his *melody*.  We manged though, because it truly was touching and sweet, even if it did hurt your ears. 

And you know what's crazy?  Even though it's been 4 months, I still pull into the driveway every day and get out of the car thinking I better hurry up and let the dog out before he shits on the floor.  It's like my tires hit the driveway and that motion somehow automatically triggers the thought that slides unconsciously across the front of my brain so that I have to consciously remind myself that "No....I don't."  I guess 12 years of habits are hard to break.

Sigh.

Well...... that was uplifting, no?  I had a few more "life events" that I was going to fill you in, but you know what? As I was writing them out I realized that they aren't altogether very happy ones. So perhaps I'll wait for another time.  Break them up a bit.  Give them to you in smaller doses.  And that way when you're done reading you won't be so overwhelmed with all things sad that you feel inclined to wash down a few Valium with a bottle of wine and go lay down on the couch.  Deal? 

Ok then.

Instead, I'll tell you the story that I told Sarah Beth who, in turn, reminded me that I needed to get my butt back to this blog. 

A few weekends ago, when it was warm and sunny and wonderfully beautiful outside, the boys spent an entire day digging a hole in the back yard.  While I think it's general purpose was pure entertainment, and later determined to be a trap for the random bunny traversing our property, what they've actually constructed is the perfect Parent trap.  I like to refer to it as "The Ankle Breaker."   It's about two and half feet deep, nice and narrow, and in just the right spot (read: completely random) for an unsuspecting 40 year old to fall right into it while preoccupied with something else.  Because who in their right mind - besides any male child between the ages of 6 and 11 - would expect that HOLE to be RIGHT THERE?!    (In case you think - with good reason - that a broken bone is the direction I'm headed with this story, rest assured that this has not yet taken place. But it no doubt will, because we haven't actually gotten around to filling that "rabbit trap" in. And the longer it lays in wait out there, the more likely we are to forget about it, so...you know.... stay tuned.)

No, instead I'm going to tell you about what happened as the hole digging was in progress.  Because hole digging requires overturning dirt, and you know what you can find in dirt, don't you? 

WORMS!  And when you come across approximately four big old juicy earthworms, and you're out in the backyard with your little brother, the next logical thing to do is to dare him to eat them.  All four.  And tell him that you'll pay him $2.00.  Fifty cents a worm!  What a deal! 

Now according to Gibson, this was all Landis's idea.  That he got an eye-full of these worms and was all "Hey Gibson!  Dare me to eat these?"  And Gibson was all "HECK YES I DO!  AND I'll even give you $2.00 so you don't have to do it for nuthin'!"  Or something of the sort....  I don't really know how it went down, or whose brain the idea originated in first.  All I know is that Gibson came into the house and announced that Landis was about to eat worms.  And I said OK and went back to what I was doing in the first place -- which I think was laundry, because I can NEVER climb out from under THAT mountain.  Anway...  I've been momming-it to little boys for almost a decade now, so I was generally unruffled by the worm eating proposal.  I mean, look y'all....  I eat sushi, which let's be honest, probably isn't really any better.  And these worms?  They were obviously organic.  Free-range.  No hormones or antibiotics, right?  I'd even wager that they're lean protein.  Doesn't that make them some kind of certified health food?  Anyway, like I said.......Unruffled.  (Though mildly grossed out when I found out that part of the deal was that he could dip them in ketchup.  I don't know why that makes it worse, but somehow it does.) 

So the worm eating event went down without fanfare, Landis earned his $2.00, and they eventually got back to the business of digging.  And for the record (because I know you're wondering) worms apparently taste mostly like "nothing". And I should also note here that I suspect Gibson may have also nibbled a few just, you know, to see..... 

But my favorite part of the story comes in here:   At the diner table after Mike got home for the evening.
Gibson was practically bursting at the seams to tell his father that LANDIS ATE WORMS that day!  And Mike, who has a weaker stomach than I do, but realizing that we were way past the point in which he could do anything about it just sighed and said "Well Landis...?  Did you at least wash them off before you ate them?"
In response, Landis curled his lip, furrowed his brow, and peered at Mike out of the top of his eyeballs like Mike just asked him the MOST ASININE question he has ever been asked in his short life and  -- I'm telling you the straight up truth here -- said this:  "Of COURSE I did!  I wouldn't eat dirt!  That's GROSS!"

Isn't that what EVERYONE does with old fruit?

Me: "Landis, I cleaned something disgusting off your walls the other day."

Landis: "What?"

Me: "I don't know.....  But it was gross.  It was splattered up in the corner, near the ceiling.  What the heck was it?  And what were you doing?"

Landis: "What color was it?"

Me: "It was brownish - AND GROSS."

Landis: "Oh yeah....  It was a rotten apple."

Me: "A rotten APPLE?"

Landis: "Yeah.  We found a rotten apple....so we threw it up against the wall."

Me: "You found a rotten apple, so you THREW IT AGAINST YOUR WALL?!?"

Landis, (shrugging): "Yeah." 

And he says it with total nonchalance, like "Duh!  Of course I did.  It was ROTTEN FRUIT.  It's what you DO." 

I totally don't get it.  And I can't help but wonder.........Is it my lack of a Y chromosome that leaves me in utter confusion about why that made even a bit of sense?

Here we go with the "sex talk"...AGAIN.....

So I'm on the phone in the car on the way to the grocery store catching up with a college friend while the kids are in the back seat.  (Oh Shut up.  Don't look at me like that. You do it too.)  She lives in California and I'm in North Carolina so the 3 hour time difference makes it kind of difficult to connect on any sort of regular basis.  I'm trying to make the most of our phone call, but I've got one ear on her and one ear on the conversation the boys are having in the back seat because they're busy making fun of each other's imaginary girlfriend, and you never know where that might lead. 


"Oh yeah?" I hear Landis say.  "Well YOUR imaginary girlfriend has a VAGINA!"  (Because I think it's clear at this point that this kid loves any excuse to toss out the V word.)


I pause in my own conversation to say "Landis.....I would certainly hope so.  All girls have vaginas.  That's what makes them girls."  Gibson snorts with glee because he loves any opportunity to prove his brother wrong.  Plus, you know, we all just said "vagina". 


They return to their bantering and I return to my friend on the phone.  But then I hear Gibson say "Oh yeah?  Well you SEX your imaginary girlfriend!"


Shit.
Two things run immediately through my mind. 
#1 - He feels pretty comfortable just throwing that "sex" word out there - like he's discussing pancakes or the blue sky, or something else fairly inconsequential.
#2 - It's clear from the way he used it that despite our very frank discussion about they way babies are made (and our little - ahem - slide show about how they get out of there), he still hasn't put two and two together.  He doesn't get it.  Or he certainly wouldn't be throwing it around in front of his mother.

I suppose this needs to be addressed.  And I guess there's probably no time like the present.


"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Cheryl?" I say.  "I have to go." And then I practically hang up on her as I adjust the rear view mirror so I can look directly at him.
"Gibson?  Do you know what "sex" is?" I ask.
"Yes" he replies.
"What is it?"
"Well...." he squirms "It's when a boy doesn't have any pants on....  And a girl doesn't have any pants on.... And they are on top of each other....."
"OK......" I reply.  (Thanks 5th-grader-on-the-bus-who-thinks-he-knows-what-he's-talking-about.  I don't know who you are, but I'm going to find you because I'm not the one who gave him this description and you're the next logical choice as the purveyor of this sort of information, no?) 


Still, I'm pretty sure that he doesn't have the whole picture - or certainly not an accurate one, being that he's so casual about accusing his brother of "sexing" his imaginary girlfriend - so I probe a little more.
"What else, Gibson?" 
"Ummmmmmmmm............... Nothing?  I don't know.  They're just on top of each other?" He squirms some more.  "I don't know what else." 


Sigh....  Here we go.  Head long into another sex talk.  I don't know why it surprises me.  I guess I thought maybe we'd just have that one, and then -- I don't know -- be done?  Or maybe I thought that they'd have these sort of talks with their FATHER?  Why don't they talk about vaginas and sexing imaginary girlfriends in front of him?!  Why is it always me?      


"Well... remember when we had that long talk about babies?" I ask him.  He says he does.  "Do you remember how all of that worked?"
"Kind of..." he tells me.  
"Do you remember where the egg comes from?"  
Yes.
"And do you remember what it takes to fertilize the egg?"
Maybe not so much...
"Well do you remember what you have in your testicles?" I ask.
"BALLS!!!" yells Landis.  Because I'm pretty sure he likes an excuse to use the word "balls" as much as he likes an excuse to use the word vagina.  
"Landis...  Your balls ARE your testicles." I remind him. "And I'm not really talking to you, OK?  I'm talking to Gibson so I want him to answer."
He can't remember. 
"It's sperm." I tell him.  Oh yeah...  He'd forgotten.
"And do you remember how we talked about how it takes both of those things to make a baby?  And how we're designed so that the man's penis fits into the woman's vagina?"
Yes, he remembers all of that. 
"Well that's what's going on when men and women have no pants on and are on top of each other....  That's the "sex" that you're talking about."

And all of a sudden it clicks. His eyes get huge as he bolts straight up in the back seat.
"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NAKED?!?!?!?" he yells.  "THAT'S SEX?!?!?!?"  He writhes around.  "That is SO GROSS.  THAT IS SO GROSS!!!!!!!  Oh My God, that's DISGUSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"


I hide my smile because I definitely don't want him to think I'm laughing at him and his reaction -- which, of course I am because It's so hilarious.  So I fix my face and say "Well, frankly I'm glad you feel that way right now.  That's totally appropriate.  But you know, when you get older and you're married and you're thinking about having a family, you may feel differently." 

(Because here's the deal........ Honestly, I want them to have a healthy attitude about sex, but I'm so far in to uncharted territory I'm not sure what to say or how to convey that. Or even if it's appropriate at this point in time.  I mean, Jeezus, he's 8. 8!! But I just keep talking because that's what I do when I have no idea what I'm doing.....Which, let's be honest, is MOST OF THE TIME.)    


"NO, I WON'T!" He shouts. 
"Well, you might.  But that won't be for a long time.  So I'm glad you think it's gross for the time-being.  You should think it's gross...."


And then.  THEN all of a sudden he has this realization..... and he stops writhing around and looks directly at me.
"Do you and DAD do it?  Do you guys have SEX?" he asks.
I look over my shoulder at him and reply as casually as possible, "Well sure...... I mean, you're here, aren't you?"  


He starts convulsing all over the back seat again but this time it's so hard I think he might actually be having a seizure.  He whips his head back and forth with a fury, like he's trying to dislodge a mental picture that is too hideous to imagine.
"DIS.GUS.TING!!!!!!  DISGUSTING!DISGUSTING!DISGUSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   OH MY GOD THAT IS SO DISGUSTING!!!!!"  he shouts.  "I am NEVER having sex.  Never, never, NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!"


"Look Gibson."  I say. "I'm glad you feel that way.  I'm just saying that there may come a time when you change your mind about that.  It's a normal part of a committed and loving relationship -- you know -- when you're an ADULT and you're ready to have babies." 


"Well I'm NEVER having sex!" he shouts again.  "If I have a wife, she can just go and have sex with SOME OTHER DUDE because I AM NEVER HAVING SEX!"


Well. 
OK then.  If my purpose here was to mentally scar my child beyond any chance of recovery - and I think it's clear that was my objective from the beginning - then I think I can say with certainty:  Mission ACCOMPLISHED. 

Confessional

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...... 
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. 
*STRAIGHT* 
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. 

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?"

"Yes."

"Did you wash your body?"

"Yes."

"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!"

Sight-Words

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'!"

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

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.


Yep.

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.

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?"

Yep.

"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?"

"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?"

Nod.

"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."

"HOW????????!!"

"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 Dooce.com. 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.

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.

Invasion

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.

Parenting Lesson #367: How to be a hypocrite

Gibson: Mom? Why are words like Dammit and Hell bad to say?

Me: Well..... They're rude words. And they're just not very nice.

Gibson: But what makes them bad?

Me: (Thinking for a minute.... working the brain overtime so I can wow him with my mommy-wisdom.) I guess I don't really know exactly. (Mommy-wisdom failing me...) They're just words that people think are rude. And they aren't very nice to say. So if you use them people will think that you're not a nice boy. That's why we don't say them.

Gibson: (Looking confused.) But didn't you just say Shit?

Me: Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh....... Yes. Yes I did.

The Rules.

First things first.... I took down that slide show set to music because, frankly, if I had to hear "somewhere over the rainbow" one more time I was going to shove a pencil through my eardrum. I guess I thought it was really cute when I posted it. Eighty-two repetitions of the ukulele have a way of changing your tune, so to speak. So, ummm, yeah. It's gone. And my eardrums just breathed a sigh of relief. I think they could sense the danger they were in.

And you know what else I did? I dug my "Good Parent" hat out of the depths of the closet, put it on, and made a behavior chart for the kids -- complete with clear expectations and consequences for poor choices. Why a behavior chart? Well.......... we were having a discussion at the dinner table the other evening that eventually, for some reason or another, came around to the fact that the boys don't kick each other at school; That, nay, they would never even dream about kicking each other at school. Or punching each other, or shoving each other, or -- in what might be considered Gibson's signature move -- grinding their foreheads into the head of the other. "Why not?" Mike and I inquired, since they apparently don't think twice about kicking the crap out of each other at home. And do you know what they said? They don't beat each other at school because "at school there are rules and stuff".

This answer of theirs intrigued me, because I swear to everything holy, AT HOME WE HAVE "RULES AND STUFF" TOO! And I am not making that up. We do! With consequences, mind you. And I'd be willing to bet that the consequences they have to face at home are stricter than anything the school is allowed to enforce. But instead of being frustrated and staring at them all slack-jawed in disbelief, we sat back and asked some questions.

"Like what, for example?"

Well, for starters, they are expected to have Safe Feet. Feet that don't kick. And Helping Hands, which by the way, don't hit. And Listening Ears. Ears that do what they're told. Ears that actually listen. Oh! And did I mention FRIENDLY MOUTHS? Well, yes! YES! Friendly mouths. Mouths that are not allowed to label someone else with an ugly name. Mouths that are not allowed to say inappropriate words. Mouths that are expected to speak in a normal tone of voice.

And do you know what sorts of consequences are implemented if there is any infringement on these rules? They have to move their alligators! Can you imagine? Every day they start on the comfort and safety of Green, but if they break a rule they must move to the not-so-comfortable Yellow. If they continue to misbehave it's Uh-Oh-Orange. Or, God forbid, RED. And no one wants to experience the horror of Red.

So you know what? I made a chart too. That very night, right after I excused myself from the dinner table. I pulled out Landis' copy of "THE RULES" and went right to work. (I mean, why re-invent the wheel? Landis's teacher did a fabulous job, and as far as I'm concerned, consistency is good.....) I went on-line and printed off pictures of the appropriate body parts -- Eyes, Ears, Mouths, Hands, Feet -- and I copied the rules, line by line, editing from the classroom for the family. I made little stick-figures to represent each of us -- Mike and I included -- because frankly, we could stand to work on the amount of yelling that both of us do. And to be fair, the rules DO dictate that if you yell, you don't have a friendly mouth. Of course, we yell because there are two little boys who are NOT using their listening ears, but we are all a work in progress, and I digress........

Last but not least, I attached the appropriate color envelope to move our "guys" into, and showed the new chart to the boys when they got out of the shower. They love it. And you know what else? It works! No one -- me included -- wants to move their guy! We remind each other every day to "use listening ears" or to have "helping hands". And yesterday, when I forgot to use my manners because I was concentrating on something else, Landis reminded me. And when I said "Thank you" he said "Well... I waited a minute and then I thought I'd remind you because I knew you wouldn't want to move your guy for not having a friendly mouth!"

It's not without it's kinks, but for the most part we're doing well. When I heard Landis call Gibson a butt-hole in the bathroom, I went right in. "Landis, do you want me to move your guy?"

"No! Nononononononono! I'm so sorry. I know I wasn't having a friendly mouth, and I'll stop. Please don't move my guy! I will always have a friendly mouth! I will not say butt, or butt-hole, or butt-crack, or butt-cheek, or wiener, or poop, or poopy, or poopy-butt, or farts, or farty-butt, or farty-pants, or boogers, or stupid, or shut up.
Oh! And crap.
I won't say crap!"
(Eyes wide, Nods with sincerity.)

So, yeah. Like I said... it's not without it kinks, but for the most part we're doing well.

Stupid is as stupid does.... Which might mean you're drunk

When I was a kid, there was this Public Service Announcement that used to play on Saturday mornings. It featured a disheveled looking dad walking into his teenage son's room holding a box in his outstretched hand. (It was years later before I finally put together the fact that it was probably supposed to be choc full of weed.) Disheveled Dad shakes the mystery box at angst-ridden son and says something along the lines of "Who taught you to do this?!" and after a few painful minutes angst-ridden son turns to disheveled dad and shouts "YOU, OK!?! I learned it from watching YOU!" At which point he storms from the room while disheveled dad stands in the doorway and adds "deflated" and "dejected" to his appearance.

Then the voice-over begins: Parents who use drugs have kids who use drugs.......

And there's a reason I bring this up...........

We have a Pumpkin Carving Party every year -- typically the weekend before Halloween -- and we usually get a small keg of good beer. (or 2). Our shin-dig is made up mostly of work colleagues and their families, but it tends to be a pretty large and diverse bash due to the sizes of the facilities that both Mike and I work in.

Everyone brings their own pumpkins -- we provide all the carving tools, tea-lights, food, beverages, etc... And at the end of the night we pass out prizes to the top 3 carvers, determined through a very democratic voting process -- except for the year that I legitimately won, but had to take a ribbing all night long because everyone thought for sure I'd rigged it somehow, since it was at my house and all..... (If you want to know more, you'll just have to come sometime....Which I highly recommend because it's really fun.)

But I tell you all of this because awarded with the prizes are specialty bottles of beer that Mike has carefully selected. They always have some sort of Halloween theme, and are usually the types of beers that you can only get at good liquor stores. You won't find them at your typical grocery.....

Landis, who is five, was helping Mike make the tags that were to go over the necks of those 3 specialty bottles, and when he was done coloring the areas of the tags that had been assigned to him, he came over to me and made a suggestion for our party. "I think we should have a beer race."

I don't know about you, but in my mind a "beer race" translates to a chugging contest, so I asked him exactly how he pictured this event taking place.
"Well...." he started, "First you invite a lot of adults over, and each one gets 2 bottles of beer. Then they take the tops off, and they drink 'em REALLY fast. And the person who finishes their beers first, WINS!" And then he grinned at me like a little jack-o-lantern who'd just come up with the best idea ever.
I turned to Mike and said "Uhhhhhhhhhh............ I think Landis just suggested a chug-off."
Mike, chuckling under his breath said "I heard."

I mean, Mike and I aren't hard-core, but we do, in fact, drink. We stock up the cooler pretty well when we go on vacation, or when we get together with extended family....
We sometimes have wine with dinner, and on occasion I come home with a bottle of decent red after an unusually hard day. And I'm not sure what this means for his future, or for studies in DNA, but I swear this 5 year-old kid has just come up with the idea for a chug-off fully on his own.

But before I could fully process the fact that my 5 year old was dreaming up the rules for drinking games in his spare time, Gibson turned around on the couch and said "Well you'd have to be careful Landis, because you could get DRUNK that way!" And since I can't remember ever having a conversation with Gibson that revolved around the word "drunk" in any way, shape or form, I'll go ahead and admit that I was more than a little taken aback. But I quickly gathered my wits, shook off the shock, and told him that he was right. And then and I asked him if he knew what the word "drunk" meant. "It means you're dumb." he explained. And then I laughed out loud because, let's be frank here, in all it's simplicity that's completely accurate.

By now I was completely intrigued because not only did he actually know the word.... he could pretty accurately define it. So I asked another question. "And where did you learn that?".

And in that exact moment, when the last syllable of the last word rolled off my tongue, I inexplicably and instantly had a flash back to that PSA that I haven't seen - or even thought about - in the past 15 years. And in that moment, I had a minor panic attack about my parenting skills - because in my experience, my kids speak the obvious, eye-opening, how-could-you-not-know-that-about-yourself?-truth. And even though in my heart-of-hearts I knew it was highly unlikely, I had this mili-second of a moment where I thought he was going to turn to me and shout "YOU, OK!?!?! I learned it from watching YOU!!"

But instead he shrugged all nonchalantly and announced that he learned it watching COPS. And also that his teacher told him. Which actually makes a lot of sense, because the last time we watched COPS, the drunks they were arresting were REALLY stupid. And apparently that was obvious, even to a 7 year old. And just for good measure here, I'll include the other life-lesson he's apparently learned from watching COPS: "Bad guys don't wear shirts."



I suppose it's a pretty good thing he didn't know us in college.

Honesty

We went for an evening paddle last night. The sun was setting, the weather was perfect, and since there's a beautiful river just teeming with wildlife 15 minutes from our house, we decided to have dinner in the canoe. Sort of a floating pic-nic if you will. And truly, it was fabulous.... (Though since we're discussing honesty here, you should know that the real motivational factor here behind our Norman-Rockwell-ish family float, was that Gibson simply would not shut up about it, and refused to let me lay on the couch in peace and quiet. He continually badgered both of us, beating us about the head and neck with his constant questions. Can we go now? Will you get the boat down? Can we go now? If you get the boat down can I help you load it? Let's load it. Come on! Let's go....Let's go.... Let's go.... Can we go? Can we go canoeing? I really want to go canoeing... Can we? Can we? Can we go tonight? Can we have our dinner in the canoe? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we go right now? Until I was all "OH MY GOD, if it will make you be quiet for more than 2 seconds then OK!!" )

So we floated and ate our dinner, and paddled around as the sun set, and it was fantastic.

And eventually, because the sun was actually setting and darkness was slowly rolling in, we called it a night, loaded up our boat and headed home. As we were driving home discussing the pleasures of our evening pic-nic, the kids started vying for dessert. So, on impulse, Mike pulled into a fast-food restaurant that serves ice-cream cones for $1.00. (I won't tell you which one, but it's name rhymes with NcBonalds)

There we were, having placed our orders for 3 chocolate dipped cones, and one just-plain-vanilla (because I somehow married a man who doesn't seem to grasp the virtues of chocolate) waiting in line behind the one person in the drive through who carefully checks the entire contents of her bag before pulling away. I can only imagine that she's seen that Lethal Weapon movie where Joe Pesci expresses extreme displeasure at having received a tuna salad sandwich, and was fully aware of what calamities might befall her in the drive-thru. And true to form, they'd forgotten her double-cheeseburger. So she's waving and honking to get the attention of the drive-through guy, who proceeds to hang out the window, 2 chocloate-dipped cones in hand, to have a 3 minute discussion with her about what may or may not be in the bag and whether or not she paid for it.

Eventually the two of them come to some sort of consensus and she slowly drives around the corner, having negotiated a deal in which the double-cheeseburger drop would take place at an alternate location so as not to hold up the rest of the line. We pull forward and drive-through window guy, now completely frazzled, hands the 2 already-melting chocolate-dipped cones into our window, which we promptly pass back to our salivating boys. Then he passes the 3rd chocolate dipped cone (for me, of course, because I don't want either of the ones he's been waving around for the past 3 minutes) into our car and closes the window. And then he straight up disappears. For a LONG time. And there we sit......waiting for the obviously forgotten just-plain-vanilla cone.

I take this opportunity to chastise Mike by pointing out that had he just ordered the clearly superior chocolate dipped cone like all the rest of us, we wouldn't be sitting here in this Joe-Pesci-Tuna-Sandwich-they-&#^$*%-you-in-the-drive-through-predicament. And then I lick my cone a few times for good measure, and also because, dang, it's melting everywhere....

The logical thing for Mike to do at this point, naturally, is to start making smart-assed comments. And I knew it was coming. Because let's face it.... part of the reason I married him was for his insufferable sense of humour. And frankly, he married me because I think obnoxious things are funny, which makes me good for his ego. (See how that works?) He starts in. He makes self-deprecating comments about himself and his inability to conform, ornery comments about the woman in front of us who frazzled frazzled-drive-through-guy in the first place, and of course, he pokes fun directly at frazzled drive-through guy.

So I have to admit that I've already got a pretty hearty giggle going on when frazzled-drive-through-guy reappears, scurrying frantically back and forth behind the drive through window -- where we've now been patiently waiting for......Oh........ I don't know, like 10 minutes? He grabs the next bag in the line of food waiting to be distributed, and speaking to someone over his shoulder, opens up the window and begins to pass the goods. And as proper customer service would dictate, half-way through this action he turns to make eye-contact with the family he's passing food to and.... SURPRISE!!!! It's us. Still waiting for the just-plain-vanilla.

Frazzled-drive-through-guy's eyes get wide with recognition as Mike raises his hand in a small wave and I take an extra big lick of my ice-cream cone. He mumbles something incoherent, closes the window and proceeds with great haste to run for the just-plain-vanilla. Mike continues to poke fun at the poor dude, making up a running dialog that surely mirrors what the guy has to be thinking, while I, naturally, am yucking it up in the passenger seat, laughing uproariously at Mike's imitation.

Frazzled-drive-through-guy dashes back to the window, throws it open, and thrusts the plain vanilla in Mike's direction.
"I'm so sorry!" he says as Mike takes the cone.
"Hey, don't worry about it." says Mike. "It wasn't a problem".
And at that particular moment, Gibson leans up in his seat in order to make sure that frazzled-drive-through-guy sees him, shifts his eyeballs in Mike's direction, and says "He was making fun of you."

His statement causes everyone to pause for a second because it's SO obvious that that's EXACTLY what's been going on, and Mike - totally busted - starts to grin. I can't control myself at this point, and I practically choke on my ice-cream as I crow with laughter, cover my tearing eyes with my free hand, and do my best to maintain an upright position -- which is nearly impossible due to the intense abdominal contractions that accompany my hysterical guffaws.

Now luckily for us, frazzled-drive-though-guy has a sense of humor, AND he's fully aware that he totally and completely screwed up our order. So much to our relief, he and Mike look at each other and share a good laugh. And frankly -- I think that frazzled-drive-through-guy needed the kind of release that a good laugh can bring, and I like to think we did him a favor......

But Gibson -- our self-righteous, holier-than-thou child -- slides indignantly back into his seat and pouts. "WHAT?!" he practically shouts. "ALWAYS tell the truth!"


Indeed child. Indeed.


Especially if telling the truth will provide you with a free opportunity to embarrass the Hell out of your father.