Telling It Like It Is

For those of you who hate it when parents tell cute stories about their kids, read no further. Seems a fitting tale to tell here. If I ever get too big for my britches, I can always count on my boys to keep me in line.

This time it was Anson. No pictures on this computer, so you'll have to imagine him. 2 1/2, reddish blonde curls, a dirty, scratched and banged up cherub. Always getting into scrapes and trouble and as different from his older brother as siblings can be. Plenty of attitude, no fear, and never willing to back down.

He's also in love with Harry Potter. Since Christmas, we've watched the various Potter movies dozens of times. To his credit, he prefers Ronald Weasley. He's taken over my favourite pen as his magic wand and is constantly pointing it at me and muttering incantations, hoping I will eventually shut up.

This weekend we'd had enough Potter. One almost wishes Voldemort would whisper whatever word it is that can kill someone outright and put the bespectacled wizard out of his misery. "No more stinkin' Harry Potter," I told him. "Enough's enough."

He pleaded.

I refused.

He got angry.

"You," he told me, " you are not beautiful."

"You are not handsome."

"You are not smart."

He stopped for a second, trying to figure out what else was wrong with me.

"Your foot is stuck," he said.

"And your eyes are broke."

And with that he turned around and left the room, leaving me pondering my many, many deficiencies.

This, dear Zach and Rachael, is what you have to look forward to.