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.