Yesterday, while I was visiting my stepmother at the hospital in Oklahoma City (She was alert and trying to communicate finally. She even smiled at me. Yay!), my husband worked on one of many project cars, while the children played in their 10 foot wide by 30 inches deep pool.

Demolition Preschooler decided to take one of the kittens swimming, putting an abrupt end to playing outdoors, but not before getting a bit sunburned. Snoring Daddy forgot to slather on the sunscreen. I know, shocker. Don’t worry, he’s a lovely shade of brown this morning—the three and half year old is brown not my husband, he’s still white with varying shades of pink.

Last night after his bath, I spread aloe vera gel all over his wiry, lean little back and shoulders. He giggled as the coolness of the gel touched his skin and he said in his sweet little Preschooler voice, “What about my little nipples. Put it on my little nipples.”

“No, I’m done,” I said as I tried to keep from laughing. I don’t like to encourage his talk about nipples. It’s just a bit disturbing. And creepy.

“Did you put some on my guns?” he asked as he lifted each arm to look at his biceps.

At that point I could not suppress the laughter. Snoring Daddy couldn’t either. He was bent over, practically falling out of his chair.

“What else are they called?” Surely he knew the answer. He smiled at me blankly. Apparently not.

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