Fierce cheesy snacks

Chris and I got home from from an evening out to find Owen with his head in the lap of our babysitter, Cake. (I mean, some people might call her Kate, but that's not really as catchy, is it?)

My youngest son's expression was one of man who has seen too much.

"I think he had a bad dream," Cake tells us.

"Dere were Cheetos on my wight," Owen pipes in, sniffling. "Dey fewl on me and bited my skin off."

Jesus Christ those were vicious, vicious, cheese puffs.

I'm like 99% sure he meant that there were cheetahs on his light, which, while not making a whole like more sense, at least doesn't make me want to burst out laughing in the face of my obviously traumatized son.

Parenting. It's a delicate line we walk. Between scarring the children by using them strictly for entertainment value and squeezing every last bit of enjoyment out of the little buggers.

Why is blue?

Yesterday, somewhere between "Are squids nice?" and "How do you make pets?" Sam asked, "Mom, can we take a second and talk about violence?"

Um. No?

"The worstest thing you can do in the entire world is shot somebody."

Not going to argue with that.

Because it would be weird to list things worster than that to a five-year-old.

"When Merton Looter King got shotted, one good thing is that the man who shotted him went to jail."

I mean, I guess if you're looking for a silver lining there.

"If you shot people, it is so bad you have to go to jail and live there. So you should never play with a gun and point it at people."

Word.

"Why are there no superheros?"

It was a Very Special Conversation Sam had with me there.

Today he asked, "Is that a penis?"

Instead of being embarrassed like a normal parent I was all, "BOOYAH!! Yes it IS a penis! What NOW, Question Boy?"