You know, when I was a kid and I’d walk into a room only to “catch” my parents smooching, or if they’d just start spontaneously smooching in whatever room I was already in, I would have the decency to become mortified and embarrassed, and quickly hie to the farthest point in the house from aforementioned public displays of affection.
That is what a kid is supposed to do, right? Either that or be totally grossed out and race to the bathroom?
But my abnormal children? Noooooooooooooooo . . .
L~: “Hey mom, did you notice in this Menard’s ad that it looks like it’s saying ‘men yard’s’ but it’s just missing the y. If you put a y in there it would say ‘men yard’s, not ‘Menard’s'”
A~: “I can’t wait until we read this next Lemony Snicket book. I wonder if the Baudelaires will . . . blah blah blah blah blah.”
Excuuuuuuse me?!? What?!? Are your father (with the quite Edward Cullenish hair at this point) and I not standing here sucking face just a little bit? Why don’t the two of you get mortified or vomit in your mouth or something appropriate like that???? You know, something appropriate which involves you leaving the room for a few minutes and coming back tentatively and subdued, not sure if life as you know it is safe, if the universe if off kilter, if the sun will indeed rise in the morning, or if your parents might still be making out in the kitchen???
Oh well. Off to read The Vile Village to my kids.
And George . . .