Happy Sunday to all. I survived my twelve hour Saturday work day and have managed to actually force myself to have a slow paced Sunday morning. I refused to get out of bed until 8am, no matter how awake I was. I got out of bed and made myself some eggs, which I haven’t done for a couple of weeks now. I leisurely checked my emails and now we are here. I did receive an interesting link from the Reverend Dark Wombat this morning. I tried to embed the video, but it refused to cooperate, so here’s the link. Teacher Sis, be sure Prop Ninja sees this if she hasn’t already.

The other day I took a photo of myself under the kitchen sink. Word to Me made a comment on the photo regarding not swinging on the cabinet doors, and I have decided that the time has come for me to let you in on the inside joke and at the same time give you people who actually have children some advise on raising them. Yeah, I know I don’t have children at this very moment in time, or possibly I do and don’t know about it, but that’s a story for another day. My advise for raising your children is this:

Never institute the technique of “Kiss it and make it feel better” with your children. It only leads to trouble.

When I was a boy, I liked to run around naked. Most children do. The story I am about to tell probably is the reason why I try to avoid being naked as an adult. One night, it was bath time, and my mother was grappling with bathing two boys when one of them escaped. It was me. The naked one. I went flitting about the house in my birthday suit, jumping on the couch, and for all intensive purposes, reliving the Wild Rumpus that I probably had not heard about yet.

Anyway, we had these cabinets that lined the hallway of our house. I would say that the doors, in retrospect, were about four feet tall and about two feet wide, but I could be mistaken seeing as how I was only three feet tall at the time. I’m sure you can see where this is going, but I’ll continue. Me, in all my naked glory, decided that I should indulge myself in one of my favorite pastimes, swinging on the cabinet doors. So, I’m swinging and swinging, wild little ape that I was, and then I slip. And SLAM! I smash my tiny little kid penis in between the cabinet and the cabinet door. Awesome. So, I’m freaking out. Screaming, crying, thrashing about, blood everywhere. What do I say to my mother in the midst of this chaos? The only thing that I know that will comfort me. You got it.

“Kiss it Mommy and make it better.”

What’s a mother to do? For the record, my mother did not “kiss it and make it better”. There was lots of hand kissing and patting it on my bloody little pecker, but no Oedipal mouth to penis action. Of course, this was not comforting me. My response:

“No, Mommy. Do it right.”

Ah, children. That story will haunt me for the rest of my days. So, the moral of the story is : don’t ever kiss your child’s boo-boos to comfort them. It will only lead to your children telling stories on the innernet. I’ve taken the firm belief that “walking it off” is the best approach to comforting your child.

Now that I have shared that awesomely embarrassing story of my childhood and brightened your day, I have a bunch of house work to go do. More soon. ~SC