The Salute

I got a call from the school today.  Apparently Landis had been riding in the back of the bus this morning, and was busily entertaining himself - and perhaps other kids too - by flipping the bird to the driver in the bus behind them. 

Word on the street was that he'd informed another student "not to worry" because she (the other driver) couldn't see him. 

But she could.

Perfectly.

Which, as one would assume, won him a front-row seat in the Principal's office. 
He explained himself by stating that he was just giving the "Hunger Games Sign" so the driver was probably confused.

That explains it, don't you think?

Because this:

 

TOTALLY looks like this:

 

 

See how easy it is to mistake one for the other?

 

Sigh.

 

I mean....good effort though.  I admire his quick thinking while his butt is in the hot seat.  Which is why Mike is the one who has to deal with this.  Because I've been trying all afternoon to stop cracking up about it, but I am totally immature.  And kids flipping the bird is funny.  And I know if he comes at me with the whole "Hunger Games Salute" there is no way on God's green earth that I can keep a straight face.  

 

Carry on, my friends.  I salute you.

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



In The Dog House

Back before I went back to work, I loved this blog.  It was such a fun way to get a little "me" time.  Sit down, look back over the day's events, and process it out over the keyboard to all of my friends who live in the computer. 

Working full time really puts a damper on the amount of time I have to do that these days - as evidenced by the date of my last post, practically 2 years ago.  A lot goes on day to day, and sometimes I think "That would make a really good blog story", but then I weigh out the time it takes to sit down and compose something halfway witty - and ultimately resort to the laziness of condensing it into a Facebook post and calling it a day. 

But that doesn't mean I don't miss these little sessions. 

I do.

So here's a funny little story that was WAY to long for a Facebook post.  (And by "funny little story" I mean it's really long, but funny if you like dogs, and poop, and destruction, and sleeplessness, and the general overall misery of *someone* totally getting what's coming to her.....)  Still with me?  Ok then.  Here we go......

Did I tell you we got a dog? We did.
And then we got another.  Because the instant that little 8 pound Norman got out of the car, I could NOT get enough of him.

I had this little episode that I can only describe as a minor mid-life crises where I wrapped him in my arms, smothered him to my face, and was all:
"OHMYGODI HAVETOHAVEANOTHERONEOFTHESETHINGS RIGHT NOW!  RIGHT NOW!!!" 
And Mike was all "Uhhhhhhhhhh........What?"  And then he listed all the practical things he could come up with that would counter my crazy ramblings about the absolute necessity of another puppy. 
Double the dog poop. 
Double the vet bills. 
Double the food. 
Double the walking.
Double the space in the car. 
Double the 80 pounds of dog. 
Double the puppies, for crying out loud. 
And I didn't care.  Wouldn't listen.  Wouldn't hear of it.  Wasn't interested. 
I answered all his statements with a chipper "That's fine."
We were getting another puppy. Period.  I was driven.  And so I made us go back for Oscar.

  

And Oscar, my friends, is the gift that keeps on giving.  He is a sweet-faced little bundle of fuzzy joy who reminds me daily that practicing a little restraint is not a bad thing.  And that sometime - (yes, sometimes) - maybe you should listen to your husband.  (Bookmark this blog post Mike, because I'm only sayin' it once.)

Norman is generally quiet.  Oscar barks.  Norman sleeps through the night.  Oscar is up at 4:00am trying to explain to us that it's morning and we should be up too.  Norman travels well.  Oscar barfs in the car.  Norman rings the bell on the back door to go outside.  Oscar poops in the dining room.  You get the idea. 

Fast forward to early June.  The dogs are 9 months old, and we're traveling to Ohio for a visit to Grammie and Grampy.  It's just the boys, the dogs and me because Mike is swamped at work.  Oscar has been given his road-trip meds (and by "given" I mean mostly shoving them down his throat  up to my elbow and then halfway wrestling his 80 pounds into submission to make sure he swallows, because I've never seen a dog who hates pills more, or who is SO good at spitting them out if you don't get them in just right) and for the 8 hour journey, all is good.    

We arrive in the afternoon, no worse for the wear and the dogs get a good run in...... down 4 yards to the neighbors who are sitting on their front porch and totally freaked out because two 80 pound dogs are running at them -- (delighted, by the way, to find someone to play with) -- while a disheveled 40 year old and a 12 year old worry wart chase after them.  But no harm, no foul.  We make jokes with the neighbors who seem to brush off their initial panic, and get the dogs back where they belong. 

The rest of the afternoon into the evening goes smoothly and eventually everyone settles in for the night.  I stay up for a while, watching TV and putzing around, and at 11:00pm I let the dogs out to go to the bathroom and then take them downstairs to sleep in the basement with me.

I turn out the lights and get under the covers, but I can hear one of them - presumably Oscar - wandering around the room.  More than once, over the course of the next few hours, the jingling tags on his collar wake me up, so I lean out of bed and peer into the darkness to tell him to "lay down".  

And then, all of a sudden he's right next to my bed - right up against it, practically in my face.  As I'm waking up and trying to get my bearings, he jumps up on the bed, walks over me and lays down.  And as the words "Oscar!  What in the world are you doing?!" are coming out of my mouth, a horrible smell is hitting my nose.  And as I'm leaning out of bed to turn on the light, I asked him.... "Oh my God, did you POOP in here?!". 

The short answer, ladies and gentlemen, is yes.  Yes he did.  The scene that unfolded as the light spread across the room was one that will haunt me for years to come.  Because not only had he pooped in the room...... He'd pooped everywhere in the room.  Including INSIDE my duffel bag.  AND he managed to walk in it - because it was in SO many places - and then spread it to every square-inch of the room while he presumably looked for a place to walk that didn't already have poop on it.  And THEN, with poopy paws, he'd jumped up onto the bed - which - if you remember from the previous paragraph was exactly when I was waking up and smelling bad smells simultaneously. 

So when I tell you that there was poop everywhere....I mean it was everywhere. 

And did I mention that I'd forgotten to pack pajamas?  That I was only sleeping in my undies?  Because that is also part of the story.  Me, standing there in a poop-filled room, in my undies.  And there was nothing I could put on, because as you'll also recall from the previous paragraph -- he shit INSIDE my bag.  Where my clothes were.  So........um, yeah.  Me and the undies I was wearing.  That was my only option.

Also.... I couldn't quite figure out how to get the dogs out of the room immediately because lots of the poop was right by the door - which was closed.  And I had to open it, thus spreading a rainbow of poop across the carpet, if I was going to get them out. Not to mention the fact that I had no way to pick up the poop in order to get out the door. 
I had to get out in order to get something to pick it up with. 
But... I needed to pick up the poop before I could open the door. 
See how that works?  And at 3:00am on snippets of broken sleep, that is a hard problem to solve. And there was only so long they were going to stand there among the poo-grenades before things got worse.  

Norman, for his part, was huddled in a far corner pointing at Oscar like "That was NOT ME, man!  It was him!  And I'd like to leave this room now....."

So I bit the bullet and opened the door - poop pile and all - and in nothing but my undies, dragged Norman, Oscar, and his poopy paws up the stairs, through the kitchen, and onto the porch where I left them so I could go about the business of a 3:00am deep-cleaning of my parent's basement. 

After a solid hour and a half of carpet-scrubbing, bed stripping, and multiple loads of laundry containing everything from bed sheets and comforters, to duffel and toiletries bags (because yes, he even managed to poop on the bag that contained my toothpaste and shampoo) I managed a shower, located a clean sheet, sent Mike a text about how OHMYGODIMIGHTKILLOSCAR and settled in on the basement couch.

Sleep was blissful.... for 30 minutes.  Which was when Oscar started barking from the porch. 

I ran upstairs - still in my undies, but grateful for a sheet - and let him outside again as he promptly disappeared into the fog of the neighbor's backyard.  When I caught him - running behind him wearing my sheet - he was busily pooing a pile in the middle of their yard as tall as my knee.  "HOW do you have ANY poop left in you?!" I hissed at him.  "I mean, GOOD LORD, DOG!!!  How much poo can your body hold?"  

All I could think about was getting him out of the neighbor's yard because the last thing I wanted was for someone to come investigate the commotion in their backyard at 5:00 a.m.   Can you imagine?  "Hi!  Don't mind me standing here in a sheet.  And this giant pile of poo?  It's cool.  I'll get it later.  Promise."  

Finally.....  Thank Heavens, finally.... he seemed to have nothing left.  So we wandered back up to the house and I put him back on the porch with Norman.  I stumbled back down to the basement and fell onto the couch where I slept until 8:00.... which is when, even through my slumber, I heard my mom utter the words "OH MY GAWD!"  

If you've ever taken the kids or the dogs to Grammie and Grampy's, and you are awakened by those words, you KNOW it has something to do with what you've brought into their house.  Because they don't wake up and just say stuff like that on a regular basis.  My mom doesn't make it a habit to wander into the kitchen and say "OH MY GAWD, this coffee you made is just fantastic, Bill!"  Right?  There's a tone to those words that you know is all you, and that you know is some giant mess just waiting for you to walk into.              

So as I hauled my sorry ass up the stairs one more time,  I see Oscar playing outside in the yard all by himself.  Which in itself would not be a big deal if he hadn't demolished the screen door of the porch to do it. 

I almost cried.   

Except, that face.  I mean, look at him.  He practically smiles. 

He has no idea how big a pain in the ass he is.  I love that face.  In spite of all his ridiculous antics -- or maybe because of them.  I don't know.   
What I do know is this:  I'm reminded regularly that I just HAD to have him.  But ultimately, I'm not sorry.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.   
(Also, I made sure to leave my credit card on file at my parent's house.)

Soul Supplies

Did you know that you can't find ANY school supplies at 12:30am the night before school is due to start?  Well.....you can't.  I know because I tried. And believe me when I say there was nothing.......And I mean Nothin'.  Not even 1 pencil.  Just rows and rows of depressed looking ransacked isles. Empty and sad.

So I sent my kids to school on the first day with a random notebook each, and nothing to write with.  "Borrow from your neighbor." I told them.  "It's a great way to make new friends....." 
And then I kissed them goodbye and sent them on their way.  
And I didn't even really feel bad about it. 
You know why?  Because we'd just had the best last-weekend-of-summer a kid could ask for.  We'd made a last minute run for the river....  and it was so worth it. 

Earlier in the year I'd gotten my hands on a family cabin at Camp Ocoee -- right on the lake at the end of the river -- and Mike and I were tyring to figure out when we were going to use this thing.  As we scoured the calendar to find a "logical" weekend option, the ones that made the most sense to take were farther and farther away from summer. And that meant farther and farther away from warm weather, longer days and good water releases. 
So we decided to seize the day.  Or, more accurately, the upcoming weekend.  The weekend before the first day of school - a literal "last hurrah" for the boys. 

We loaded the kids up into the car at 7:00pm and drove the 5 and a half hours it took us to get to Ducktown Tennessee - which, in case you're wondering, is as small as the name suggests.  We rolled in at midnight, found a place to pitch our tent, and persuaded 2 sleepy boys out of the car and into their sleeping bags.  And when dawn pushed itself up and over the horizon in the morning, both boys were up, racing around and raring to go.  "Let's go RAFTING!!  Let's go RAFTING!!  Are you ready?! Can we go RAFTING?!"  In fact, they were SO excited, we even beat the water to the put-in.

And that day -- in truth, the entire weekend - was filled with so much excitement, and joy, and frenzied screaming that pencils and erasers and notebook paper seemed unimportant.  And when their cousins and aunt and uncle joined us, the excitement and joy and frenzied screaming was only amplified as we piled more kids into the raft and took off for run after run..... smashing through waves and bouncing over ledges amid shrieks of laughter.

We took side-hikes up Goforth Creek, and the kids busied themselves studying the currents and constructing make-shift rafts out of sticks -- using thin green twigs to tie them all together.  They scrounged the hulls of buckeyes out of the dirt to make little kayaks that they'd send down the small stream, predicting what route each one would take, and what would happen as it hit each miniaturized "river feature". They'd cheer and clap when they were right, scoop their boats up out of the water at the end of the run, and race back up the rocks to do it again.  Gibson engineered his own "undercut" rock feature in the middle of the stream, and then showed us what happens when a boat accidentally runs into one. 
"Mom!" he said, "I know why they can be dangerous....  Here... Watch this..." 
They were all perfect  examples of science experiments, right there in nature's classroom.  No pencils, or notebooks or erasers necessary.

And at then end of each day, back at the cabin (though solidly worn out from the river miles) there was this:

And this....

 

Which was not to shabby a way to spend the evening. 

On Sunday -- the final day of the best-last-weekend-of-summer -- Jen and the kids and I spent a lazy morning reading books, swimming in the lake, and launching ourselves off the rope swing, while Mike and Chris got a run in by themselves.  Sunday was ticking away and I still had to go to the store -- had to get some school supplies for the boys.  But...well......  it was the best-last-day-of-summer.  So.....  You know.....  (shrug). 

At 1:00, we packed up the cabin, loaded up the cars, and went to the put-in for one more run.  Putting on at 2:00 meant we probably wouldn't be off the river until 5:00.  And then we had a 5 and a half hour drive back to Charlotte. 

"What do you think?" Mike wanted to know... 

You know what I thought?  I thought that the final day of the best-last-weekend-of-summer was not a day to be stressed.  And that we should soak up every last minute of it. 

And so we did. 

And when your 5 year old nephew is bouncing on the thwart in front of you screaming "AWESOME!!AWESOME!!AWESOME!!AWESOME!!" when you plow through the first big hit on the river, and every kid in the raft is yelling "SURF IT! SURF IT! SURF IT!" when you paddle up to the reliable surfing hole, and when your 8 year old is screaming "THIS IS THE BEST MOST AWESOME DAY OF MY LIFE!!!" when you drop them into the final rapid of the day, with all of them crammed into the front compartment so that they can be absolutely and thoroughly drenched with the wave coming over the bow of the boat.........well.... being irresponsible is sometimes the responsible thing to do.  Especially when they look like this:

And this....

And this....

I mean look at those faces......

That weekend was good for my soul.  It was good for Mike's soul.  It was good for their souls.  And at the end of our last-minute-irresponsible-last-weekend-of-the-summer-getaway, they were so full to the top with fun and laughter and happiness and achievement, that even though they didn't technically have what they "needed"... there's not a doubt in my mind that, really?  They had exactly what they needed. 

Into the Pride

Here's a good one for you..... 

We went to a party last night.  It was thrown by a friend who has a teenage daughter, and both adults and kids were welcome.  So when we rolled up to the party, we were met by a large pack of teenage girls standing on the front lawn.  We parked, and before we got out of the car, I answered a text I'd gotten from another friend who was on her way.  As we were sitting there, Gibson leaned up and said "Uh..  Mom?  They're all staring at us...."

"I know."  I said. 

"WHY are they all just staring at us?" he asked.

"Because they're teenage girls" I replied. "And that's what teenage girls do."

Gibson contemplated this for a minute and then he looked at me and said "Mom...?  Do they also hunt in prides?"

And after I collected myself from my hysterical fit of laughter I said "Yes they do, honey.  Yes they do..."

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!"

Growing up Google

The other day, Gibson was asking about Heaven.  He and Landis were engaged in some sort of discussion about how things work up there and they needed clarification on something.  So he turned to me and asked "Mom?  Can you see up in Heaven?" 

"What do you mean?" I asked him. 

"I mean, can you see - like with your eyes, the way we can see right now?  Can we see like that in Heaven?" 

"I don't know Gibson.", I told him. "I guess...  But you know? No one really knows for sure what Heaven is like."

"No one?" asked Gibson.

"No.  Not really." I replied into their wide, unblinking eyes.

"What?!?!" said Landis, skeptically. "Not even GOOGLE?!?"

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!"

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!"


Hmmm.
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.

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......

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.