All but Daryl were enjoying some cuddles this morning. As Jane joined us, I asked if she had slept well. She replied that she had not and proceeded to tell us about the nightmare she had had just before waking. This caused Hal to “remember” his nightmares and he jumped to his knees to tell us about them.

In his best spooky voice and with eyes as wide as saucers, he began. “I had this nightmare about… a zombie! And he ate my braaaaaaaaaaains! Ooooooooooooh!” He loomed over me with his arms in the air.

“And then I had another nightmare about a big zombie. He ate my toe and then I farted on his face and he DIED!

“And then I had another nightmare about a BIGGER zombie that ate my finger and then farted on me and then I farted on him and he DIED!”

“Well now I know how to handle zombies,” Jane commented. “I just need to have Hal fart on them.”

My husband and I were smiling and laughing silently, while Jane was laughing loudly. Hal picked up he had a receptive audience and continued with glee, bouncing on the bed and flailing about as he demonstrated how each zombie died (the death throes were massive).

“And then I dreamed about this big HUGER zombie that was bigger than the whole… EARTH!” He leaned in close to my face and whispered dramatically, “It was bigger than this house, but not bigger than the bigger, biggest buildings.” Sitting back up and thrusting his arms in the air, “but it was bigger than the earth! And it ate my baby but then I punched it in the face and farted on it and it died!

“And then there was the evil monster! When it attacked, it was killed by the big… dinosaur! Oooooooh!

“And then I had another nightmare…”

“I think this boy sleeps too much,” whispered my husband in my ear. I smiled and listened to the dozen or so supposed nightmares as the boy frolicked across us on the bed.

How To Know You Are A Boy’s Mom

Becoming a parent changes a person. Everyone changes differently based on who they are and who their children are. But, here’s one sure-fire way to know that you are indeed a boy’s mom.

You walk into his room in the morning to rouse him from bed. He’s curled up and laying on his side. You sit down next to his bum and lift his feet, rolling him onto his back. You look at those big feet you are holding in your hands and you remember the tender little baby he used to be.

You begin to rock his legs back and forth and massage his feet as if he’s still that little baby. You comment to him, “Oh, my. Look how big my first little boy has become. Just look at these feet! He’s getting so big!” You look lovingly at that angelic freckled face.

He looks back at your dreaming eyes that are soaking up the precious early morning moment… and farts. And you laugh. That’s how you know that you have fully transitioned to being a boy’s mom. You laugh when one deliberately farts at you.

A Really Bad Thing

We were driving into town, all five of us packed tight in our little Prius, when Hal made an announcement.


“Yes, dear.”

“If I pooped in my pants, that would be a really bad thing. If I pooped in my pants.”

Daddy: “You know what else would be a really bad thing, Hal?”


“Hitting your face with a hammer.”

Hal: “Well, you know what else would be a really bad thing? Hitting your butt.”

Daryl: “No, a really bad thing would be farting in the car.”

Jane: “A really bad thing would be to provoke a shark.”

Daryl: “No, you know what would be a really bad thing? Attacking the Pentagon and trying to destroy it all by yourself. That would be a bad thing.”

Hal: “You know what would be a really bad thing?”

Daddy: “Coming up with really bad things?”

Hal: “No. Hitting someone’s house and smashing their Christmas tree and then farting around it and hitting your butt. That would be really awesome.”

The conversation degraded from there as only conversations with either children or drunk adults can do.

Shower Conversations

I love our new shower. We spent ten years sharing the one down the hall with the kids. Our bathroom still lacks a sink as the remodeling process stretches on, but I can now happily shower away from the kids. Usually.

Shortly after we installed it, Jane walks in to use the toilet. As she sits there, she watches me take a shower. “Isn’t it kind of weird to take a shower where everyone can see you?”

“Well, honey, most people don’t open closed doors to come into my bathroom so it’s usually not a problem.”

“Oh. Right.”

Sometimes I think a light must go on in the hallway whenever I turn on the water. That light signals to the children that now would be an excellent time to try to talk to me. I can count on Hal opening the door and whining about whatever is going on in the house that he objects to. Daryl has tried to bring me school papers to sign.

Just this morning, Jane pokes her head in. I hear, “Mommy, where is your {words lost in the drone of the water}”

“Jane, you will have to come in here if you want to talk to me. I can’t hear you. And close the door. You are letting in all the cold air.” (The heater is another item still missing in the remodel and I despise being cold.)

She walks right up beside the shower door. “Where is your leg blower?”

I stare back at her. “WHAT?!

“Where is your leg blower?”

I stop moving and ask again. “What?”

Getting frustrated, she moves her hand up and down her leg, almost as if she’s shaving, and repeats herself.

Replaying the words carefully, contemplating her pantomime, and studying her attire (she’s wearing black pants), I figure it out: “Where is your leg roller?”

She wants to know where the lint roller is. I give her some suggestions on where to look (my bathroom is still in disarray, remember?). She heads out and I resume my ablutions.

My husband soon walks in and I repeat the exchange to him. I comment that I don’t know why the kids try to talk to me in the shower. Then I start telling him about how the previous day had gone for me. While talking about a woman in my yoga-at-work class, I say, “We always park next to each other.”

“You park next to each other?” He sounds surprised.

“Yes, every day. It’s kind of funny.”

He begins to laugh.

Encouraged, I continue, “Whichever of us gets there first parks at the very end. The other one then parks…”

I trail off because he is laughing harder now. “You didn’t hear what I said, did you?” he asks.

“You asked if we park next to each other.”

“No, I asked if you FART next to each other and then you said, ‘Yes, every day. It’s kind of funny.'” He laughs some more. “I think maybe you shouldn’t have ANY conversations while in the shower.”