Why dinner is my favorite time of the day.

Girl Child: Jean-Paul likes CSI Miami.

Me: Jean-Paul? Your boyfriend?

Girl Child: He's not my boyfriend.

Me: Okay, sorry. Your friend who is a boy, Jean-Paul?

Boy Child: Really, he's not her boyfriend. He likes somebody else.

Me: Oh.

Girl Child, shrugging: It's true.

Me: I'm so sorry.

(What I don't say is: I know how badly you wanted him to give you a rose. I hate that prick. What an idiot. What a doucheface. You're beautiful. You're wonderful. You're perfect. He's a fool. Because, well, she's twelve. And he's twelve. And it's not the end of the world. But oh, oh how I feel it. I so badly want to find him and kick in his not yet dropped nads.)

Girl Child: Eh. His loss.

Boy Child: He gave another girl a rose on Valentine's Day.

Me, because I'm clearly the best mother ever and also totally unable to control myself: That asshat.

Boy Child: Aren't Frenchmen like that, mom?

Me: Like what?

Boy Child: You know. Like a Guido. But nicer. And less oily.

Me: Maybe.

(In case you haven't figured out by now? I just sort of go with it. Whatever it is for the day.)

Girl Child: He moved anyway.

Me: Well, who cares about that butt bonnet? Someday you'll find a boy who thinks you are the bees knees.

Boy Child: And if he does you wrong? I'll hunt him down and beat his ass.

Girl Child: No, you won't brother. If he treats me bad? I'LL beat his ass. I can take care of myself. You'll see.


Somehow? I have no doubt about that.

(But someone will have to keep an eye on me. I don't act right)