Curtis, Mike and I were riding in the car the other day, when Mike made the statement:
"Look! The whole family is riding in the car together."
The dog was in the car with us, but our other son, King, was obviously not in the car.
"What are you talking about? King's not here," I corrected.
"I mean, our real family is in the car."
Curtis and I shot each other "did-he-just-say-what-I-think-he-said" looks.
"No... King is a part of our real family. He's as much a part of this family as you are."
Michael sighed, like he couldn't believe he had to explain yet another thing to his extremely dense parents.
"Here's the problem... who's baby is King?"
We quickly surmised that Michael was asking the age old question: "Who da baby mama?" The truly disturbing part (other than the obvious Jerry Springeresque quality of the question), was that he thought he knew the answer and he thought the answer was not me. What did he think, that we've been performing some great charitable act by letting King live with us and calling him "son" and "brother"?
Save threatening her young, nothing will get a mama bear more riled up than questioning the validity of her pregnancy and birth experience. However, seeing as this "accusation" came from my five-year-old, I saved him the "I carried your brother's fat ass around in my belly for 9 months, until he decided to fold into the pike position and they had to filet me like a trout to get him out. Thank you very much!" monologue. Instead, we simply informed Michael that King was indeed my baby, that he came from me, out of my belly.
He was sincerely surprised. "Oh! Really? Well, that's AWESOME! That's really really AWESOME!"
Yes. It is.