Fan Mail

On a junior high retreat, the nuns made us play a game that was supposed to build our self-confidence.

We each had to write our name on a piece of paper. Then our paper was randomly passed amongst our classmates. Each classmate had to write one word about the person whose name was on the paper. It had to be good and it had to be unique.

I was a pretty confident kid, and I figured I'd be called smart, intelligent, and maybe nice. But I couldn't begin to imagine what else people thought of me.

It was amazing how a group of preteen kids could end up so thoughtfully finishing this exercise. Even the weirdest kids in class, the ones who were teased or ignored, ended up with pages of words that really captured what was best about their personalities.

And I was floored to see what people thought of me. Yes, they called me smart, responsible, athletic and caring. But they also called me pretty, beautiful, witty, and funny. It had never occurred to me that anyone would even think twice about my appearance. I never did. And I had never thought of myself as funny. I thought of myself as a dork. I was okay with being a dork, but still.

Sometimes, I wish I could do that again. I wish I could pass around a sheet of paper with my name in red ink and see what people thought of me. Because egos are fragile things and they all need a boost sometimes.

But I think there is a danger in listening too hard to our biggest fans. They can inflate our egos until they float away. And we're left with a convoluted sense of our own importance.

Bloggers, myself included, are a perfect example of that.

I rarely, if ever, put people up on pedestals myself. Maybe it is because I am too competitive. Or maybe it is because I am too brutally honest to ever believe that someone can be so flawless, so completely wonderful that they need to stand above all others.

And I'm not so comfortable being put up on one myself. It's a long, hard fall down. And you know you're going to fall eventually.

Maybe it is good to check in with your biggest fans from time to time. You can take a mental measure of all the ways in which you totally rock, and then take it all with a grain of rock salt.

Yes, I think there is a danger in listening too hard to our biggest fans. But I love to do it anyway.

Light Dawns on Twin Mountains

How I could I not have noticed this before?

Remember the buff women from my gym with the Krispy Kreme shirt? Well, she seems to have a gaggle of cohorts. They are all thin and in great shape. But last week I noticed something about all of them.

They all have big boobs. Nice boobs.

It wasn't until one of them showed up in a t-shirt with the name of a gentlemen's club emblazoned across those boobs that it even occurred to me.

They're all strippers.

Some accidental eavesdropping proved me right. My gym is the place for the stripper crowd to work out. Why? Because they have good childcare and no snooty society wives.

No wonder I like it there.

And no wonder my gym is always full of old men sitting around on the equipment talking and drinking coffee. There ain't nothing like a free show.

Superhero

I'm not one of those women who thinks of my husband as a hero.

I mean, yeah sure. He's a great guy and all. And he has superior skills at some things. Like his job. He is excellent at what he does both in his aircraft and on the ground. He's got the awards to prove it.

He is also excellent at balancing the needs of the mission and the needs of his family. In my ten years of experience as a military wife, I've seen very few guys who can do that well.

But, eh. So what. Yeah, yeah, he goes to war and all that. But big deal. From the outside maybe he looks like a hero, but to me he is just a part of Team Tuna, doing the best he can to get this little family through life as safe and happy as possible.

When it comes right down to it, who wants to live with a superhero?

They're always jetting off at a moments notice and leaving a mess in their wake.

On second thought, maybe he is a superhero. He sure is good at making messes.

And that thing he did the other night? Well, that was rather heroic. Not even twenty-four hours after taking a puck to the nads, he wanted to have sex. And he wanted me to blow him.

Is he crazy? I couldn't do it. I've always been a little afraid of what men have going on down there. I wasn't about to mess with that swollen mess. But apparently he's like the post office. No rain, nor sleet, nor puck to the jewels will keep him from his appointed round. He is Bionic Balls.

Now I know how he felt when I asked him to check my episiotomy scar.

The Beard

Oh, how I wish this post wasn't about my face.

From my Irish father I got intelligence, stubbornness, and unfailing loyalty. And skin so white that the glare from my naked body blinds infants and small animals.

From my Portuguese mother I got a maternal, affectionate, and loving nature. And hair so dark and thick I can hide Satan's lesser demons in its shadow.

Unfortunately, that hair doesn't only grow on my head.

I got my first "witch's hair" (a term I learned from CB for those little bristling hairs on a woman's chin) when I was in high school. During a makeover for a modeling class, some bitchy woman with frosted hair plucked it out.

And so was born a life long obsession.

Not only do I spend untold hours every week with wax, Nair, tweezers, and cream trying to ensure that I don't become eligible to star as the bearded lady in a circus show, I have developed the bad habit of pulling hairs from my face (including eye lashes and eye brows) whenever I have a spare hand.

For years I deliberated about getting electrolysis. I was sick of all the work, time, and pain involved in removing hair, and I was sick of being self conscience about it. I am forever tucking my chin into my shirt or covering my mouth with my hand when I talk to people.

But all I heard was that electrolysis was painful and not very effective.

Then I got my first gray hair on my chin.

That's when I started fantasizing about laser hair removal. I've been talking about it for years, but I never felt justified spending money on something so vain.

And then along came my husband with a gift certificate in hand.

He was extremely nervous about giving it to me. He didn't want me to think that my extraneous hair bothered him in any way. And he was worried about how it would sound to my friends.

"What did your husband get you for Christmas?"

"Laser hair removal."

It just doesn't sound so good.

But it was the perfect gift. It was something I really wanted but would never get for myself. He told me that he was really giving me back time and confidence.

He got me six sessions with the doctor. (Yes, it is by an M.D. in the same hospital where I had my jaw surgery.) And those six sessions come with a two year hair-free guarantee.

I am very excited. But very nervous too. I don't want to get my hopes up and then not have it work so well. And I'm afraid of the pain during the procedure and the "sunburn-like" pain after. But there was no way I was going to waste that much money, so I made my appointment.

February 8. It's circled in red on my calendar.

Last week I got the pre-appointment paperwork. Because they want as many hairs to be in the growth stage as possible, I am not allowed to "wax, pluck or use depliatories" until after my appointment.

Do you know what I will look like after two weeks of letting my beard grow?

I am, however, allowed to shave.

Yes, I can shave my face with a razor.

I haven't decided what to do yet. Do I really want stubble and five o'clock shadow? Will my husband ever have sex with me again if he has to teach me how to shave my face? Do they sell enough Jolene cream bleach in the entire free world? Or should I just let it grow and hide in my house for two weeks?

You know, I've always wanted to be one of the guys, by I didn't want it to happen this way!

A Good Slap Shot

My husband just headed out the door to his hockey game. He currently has a seven-game scoring streak going.

I find that so fucking hot.

Of all the stereotypically hot things he does (like strip out of a flight suit and combat boots every night) there is just something about a good slap shot that gets me wet.

Oh, I should mention, before he left he asked me if I had blogged today. When I said no he responded, "Well, come on. You've got people waiting. Write something sexy."

Sexy? Sexy!

First of all, who says, "sexy" in real life? Second of all, I've been called a lot of things. Like dirty, and slutty, and sexual, and kinky, and disgusting, and gross. But I have never been called sexy.

I was planning on writing about the beard I'm growing. Now that plan is shot to hell.

But hockey game night is usually sex night. Maybe I should go write something just for him. I have a bright future ahead of me writing letters to Penthouse.

"I never thought something like this would happen to me."

Update: Well, he scored tonight all right. His scoring streak is alive, but only on the ice, not in our bedroom.

Poor Tuna Man took a slap shot square in the nuts.

You're probably asking, "But, Tuna Girl, wasn't he wearing a cup?" And I asked the same thing. But apparently the boys hang low enough to get it from the rear.

Is it wrong that I can't stop giggling about this. I think it is adorable.

Poor, poor Tuna Man. He can't stop groaning.

So much for my Penthouse letter.

For the Record

For the record, I'd like to point out that according to my most recent issue of Redbook (Don't judge me!) 41% of sexually active women have tried anal sex.

Add in those who have tried it and won't admit to it and you're closing in on half of all sexually active women.

So here's my question: If oral sex is the new making out, is anal sex the new oral sex? Then what's the new anal sex?

On a completely unrelated topic...

*ahem*

While I love getting phone calls from my special blogger friends, multiple drunk dials while my husband and I are making sweet, sweet love can be a little distracting.

Let's see...when it is 10 o'clock in New York, it is private time at the House of Tuna.

My Fine is $125.50

We had fun with this at Betty's over the weekend. Seems I'm the goody-two-shoes of her bunch.

Why were people surprised?

Here’s how it works: You don’t have to confess your answers, just the amount of your fine. (Not per incident!) Tally up your score and post it on your blog with the title… ”My Fine Is…”

Smoked pot — $10
Did acid — $5
Ever had sex at church — $25
Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you — $40
Had sex with someone on MySpace — $25
Had sex for money — $100
Vandalized something — $20
Had sex on your parents’ bed — $10
Beat up someone — $20
Been jumped — $10
Crossed dressed — $10
Given money to stripper — $25
Been in love with a stripper — $20
Kissed some one who’s name you didn’t know — $0.10
Hit on some one of the same sex while at work — $15
Ever drive drunk — $20
Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk — $50
Used toys while having sex — $30
Got drunk, passed out and don’t remember the night before — $20
Went skinny dipping — $5
Had sex in a pool — $20
Kissed someone of the same sex — $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex — $20
Cheated on your significant other — $10
Masturbated — $10
Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend — $20
Done oral — $5
Got oral — $5
Done/got oral in a car while it was moving — $25
Stole something — $10
Had sex with someone in jail — $25
Made a nasty home video — $15
Had a threesome — $50
Had sex in the wild — $20
Been in the same room while someone was having sex — $25
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars — $20
Had sex with someone 10 years older — $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27 — $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time — $50
Said you love someone but didn’t mean it — $25
Went streaking — $5
Went streaking in broad daylight — $15
Been arrested — $5
Spent time in jail — $15
Peed in the pool — $0.50
Played spin the bottle — $5
Done something you regret — $20
Had sex with your best friend — $20
Had sex with someone you work with at work — $25
Had anal sex — $80
Lied to your mate — $5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good — $25

What I've Got

I am going to repeat a phrase heard all over the blogospere this month.

I went back to the gym today.

I'd been dragging my ever-widening ass about going because, frankly, I was embarrassed. I hated to show my face there when I hadn't been since October. I hated to show my body there when clearly I hadn't made any progress since September.

But I've got goals, damn it!

I shouldn't have worried. I saw all the regulars and they were all friendly.

And they all looked exactly the same as they did three months ago.

That scares the fuck out of me. If these people who spend every morning at the gym, often with trainers, haven't lost any weight or gained any muscle definition, what chance do I have?

Fuck it. I've got goals, damn it!

I had forgotten how much I like to work out. Oh, I hate the cardio hell as much as the next person. But I love to lift. And I love to listen to my music without any little ears to hear about booty shaking and sex having. I had also forgotten what terrible taste I have in music.

And I had forgotten about how I usually end up having to run into the bathroom as soon as I get there. I'm that girl. That crazy bathroom girl.

But fuck that too. I've got goals, damn it!

The Grass Over There

When things get tough, I always joke with Patrick that I'd trade lives with him.

He can clean up the pee and puke and I'll go to Happy Hour. He can dispose of the dead bird in my attic and I'll make out with random guys in bars. He can spend hours helping with homework, violin practice and carting sometimes cranky kids all over the damn town and I'll have hot sex with professional-types in leather harnesses. (Not that I'm saying.)

The truth is that I can sometimes be jealous of his life.

I know it's not all green grass and rosebuds (ha!) on his side of the fence. I was there when he sold everything he owns and moved out of desperation. I was here waiting for word when he had major surgery. Sometimes I'm glad I met him after his days of chemo and live-like-you-were-dying trips to Africa. Sometimes I wish I had met him before because I don't like the idea of him being so alone during that time. But I've learned that I don't do well with his alone-ness.

But still. What I envy are his first kisses. And fresh meetings. And new beginnings. And freedom.

Oh, sweet, sweet freedom.

Basically, he can do what (and who) he wants when he wants. As long as his work schedule and finances allow. There are no babysitters to schedule. No partner to placate. If he feels like going for a run in the park in the rain, he puts on his running shoes and goes.

Of course running in the rain alone isn't much fun.

And first kisses, fresh meetings and sex with new people may be exhilarating, but I don't remember them being very comfortable.

For the first time yesterday, Patrick was the one to joke that he'd trade lives with me.

It's the age-old pull between single people and married people. The grass always seems so much greener on the other side of the fence. But it takes a lot of fertilizer to make things so green. And who really wants to walk in that much shit?

The thing about my husband is that he believes I can do anything. We all deserve mates who believe that we can achieve anything and be anything we set our minds to.

I'll never trade my kids for freedom. I'll never trade my husband for a newer model. But if I run with my husband's faith in me I can make our kisses exhilarating. I can make life more spontaneous and fun. I can fabricate my own brand of freedom.

I can have it all.

Maybe Patrick is the key. You see, he lets me play on his lawn. And my husband lets me out to play safe in the knowledge that I'll be back for supper time.

If I can have it all it is only because these two men give me so much.

Maybe I'm just the fertilizer.

Pretty, Pretty Fly Boy

While in the midst of fever dreams yesterday, I seem to remember my husband coming into the bedroom and saying, "You have got to thank MAK and K for the gift."

"Huh, what?" was most likely my reply.

Thank goodness my husband was able to get out of work yesterday. Not only was he able to drive the kids to school, he was able to go pick them up when they closed the schools two hours later. Yes, they closed the schools for "a wintery mix" of precipitation.

It seems that the kids were able to occupy themselves for most of the afternoon with MAK's gift of Pretty, Pretty, Princess. Except my son won't actually play games. He hates to lose so he'll just "help" someone play. Which means that my husband spent a couple of hours playing Pretty, Pretty, Princess with my daughter.

Why, oh why wasn't I awake to see that? I need pictures! Yes, I need pictures to share with all those guys at work who are terrified of him. This has "new call sign" written all over it.

So I thank you, MAK and K, for the gifts and the reminder that my husband will do anything for his daughter.

How do you think he'd feel about playing with a bunch of queens? We're going to have to find out.

So, So Sick

The Bad News:

I think I threw up something I ate in high school.

The Good News:

Now I don't have to feel guilty about that ice cream I ate last night.

Judging Others is Fun

Who knew judging others could be so much fun?

On Friday I was one of about 24 judges for a middle school science fair. The entire experience was quite interesting.

My first assignment was to judge ten sixth grade projects.

I was quite disappointed to see the disparity between the boys and the girls projects. We pay a helluva lot of money to send the kids to this school. I didn't think they were letting the girls fall through the cracks of math and science.

The problem was mostly with the choice of subject matter. While the boys were conducting experiments on corrosion and electromagnetic fields, the girls were seeing if wood would sink faster then metal. Although I was quite impressed with one girl's experiment on which brand of diaper held the most water. (A newborn-sized Huggies holds 2 and a half cups!) I can only hope that this phenomenon was unique to my group.

I was the first one done so I was sent back out to fill in for another judge who didn't show up. This time I was assigned the group eighth grade projects. I was quite happy to see that by eighth grade, the boys and girls seemed to be on a more level playing field. Maybe those junior high years are the ones in which the girls grow.

In fact, the group I chose as my winners were a pair of girls who conducted an extensive experiment comparing antibacterial and non-antibacterial cleaners. (Dial foaming hand cleaner killed the most bacteria by far.)

All of the pairs were single sex except for one. As the girl started to present their project on crystals I wondered if they were a fledgling young couple. I started young myself. Then the boy opened his mouth.

I wanted to put my arm around the girl and say, "Oh, Honey. You have a lot to learn." I can spot the fag-hag-to-be's at forty paces.

When she exclaimed at the end of their presentation, "He just loves his rocks!" I wondered how much she already knew.

I learned a lot as a judge, both on the fair floor and in the lounge. I even learned a little something about myself.

While I was tallying my first score sheet, the head judge asked me, "What do you do?"

It's been so long since someone asked me that question that I was taken by surprise. I even repeated in back to him. "What do I do?"

"Yes, what do you do?"

I smiled at him and answered, "I'm a mom."

"Oh! That's great!"

It turns out that he thought I was one of the young alums who works in the science field that they had asked to judge. "You look too young to be a parent," he told me.

And I realized that I finally crossed that line. I am finally at an age where I feel flattered and not frustrated to be mistaken for someone much younger.

This worries me though. Why should I feel so flattered? And what happens when I start to look my age.

I think I'm going to put the dermi on speed dial. How much could Botox hurt, really?

My Mullet-Wearing Teddy Bear

I am the queen of the package!

I love sending packages to people. Even if they are only filled with little trinkets. Or enough coffee to last a small platoon a year. (I don't drink coffee. I didn't know how much to send!) But the process of shipping something can leech the joy right out of it.

But I've discovered a secret.

Nestled away in a corner of the bottom floor of my husband's squadron building right here on base is a United States Post Office. It's so quiet there that I've never actually seen another customer. They have shelves and shelves full of Priority shipping boxes in shapes I've never conceived. And it's like it's right there all for me. My own private Tuna Shipping of America.

During the holidays, I was exiting the Post Office wrestling with three large boxes when I noticed something. My name was actually on the sign in the lobby! It really was Tuna Shipping of America!

On closer inspection I realized that the sign was for my husband's squadron, which shares a lobby with the Post Office.

99th Flying Ninja Squadron
Col Dirk "Kicks" Butts, Commander

Below that was listed my husbands rank, full name, call sign and job. Like he was...important or something!

I had no idea.

There's a part of me that will always see him as the mullet-wearing, grocery-bagging teenager he was when I fell in love with him.

I know it sounds mean, but I stood in the lobby and laughed for a second. It is just impossible for me to imagine my big 'ole Teddy Bear of a husband commanding people in combat. He's so laid back. These tough military guys actually listen to him?

Who knew?

I told him the story and he teases me about it, but he even admitted that it's a little surreal for him sometimes too. Mostly, it makes him feel old.

Yesterday he came home and said, "You think it was weird for my name to be on the sign at the squadron? You should hear this!"

He ran into an old commander of his and they were talking about the next crop of students my husband will be instructing. When the talk turned to one particular senior Captain the commander said, "My God, that guy is terrified of you!"

Apparently the Teddy Bear has a reputation. I am exceedingly amused by this revelation.

I wonder what the kids would think of it.

Hair

I have this thing about hair.

My son came home from school the other day and told me that one little girl in his class cut the hair off two other little girls. She just walked up behind them while they were coloring and chopped off a huge section of each girl's hair.

If my daughter had been the target of her drive-by cutting, my husband would have had to keep me in check when I confronted that situation. Can you imagine being the teacher and having to call those girls' parents?

When I was little--maybe my daughter's age--I saw a documentary on the Holocaust. One image above all others stuck with me. It was an image of the Nazis shaving women's heads. It was the ultimate act of humiliation, objectification, and psychological cruelty to a people who were already persecuted way beyond the understanding of my then seven-year-old self.

The horror of it never left me.

And maybe this explains why I was so upset when my daughter cut her hair off. And why I cried when the dog had to be shaved down. And why I couldn't bare to look when Joyce shaved her head to win a Fast Forward on Amazing Race 7. I had nightmares about that damn episode for weeks.

Like Joyce kept repeating to herself while they shaved her head, "It's just hair. It's just hair." And I know that. But it doesn't keep me from getting completely bent out of shape.

Which is why it hurt my heart so much when my son was diagnosed with Alopecia Areata when he was a toddler.

Alopecia Areata is a condition in which a person's own immune system mistakenly attacks healthy hair. It can cause patchy baldness and in some cases, complete loss of all hair.

Researching his condition on the web was probably not a good idea. The discussions of how it affects people's lives and the pictures of kids and adults with hair loss upset me so much. Not that my son would have ever known it.

People would ask about his bald patch all the time. They would tell me over and over again that they figured he had a brain condition, tumor, or disease or had recently had surgery. I would explain about Alopecia Areata and people would often react like he had cancer.

I've never been one to fuss much with my own hair. Once I got past my preteen years of spraying and ironing my bangs into a gravity-defying wall, I've pretty much just gone with medium length and straight. Most days, I wear it in a cheerleader style ponytail, as far up and off my neck as possible. My hair is very thick.

For years I've been wanting to donate my hair to Locks of Love, but I've never had the patience to grow the ten inches that are required to donate. My hair is so heavy, it gives me a headache if I let it get too long. It bugs me and I end up getting it cut.

Not this year.

2007 is the year I donate my hair to Locks of Love.

It is such a simple, easy thing to do. The majority of children helped by Locks of Love have lost their hair due to Alopecia Areata. How could I not?

I measured my hair last night. I have six inches to donate so far. Maybe after I complete the only other goal I have set for this year (running the Race for the Cure in September) I'll cut my hair off in celebration.

My son's hair grew back. It took about a year, which is typical. He hasn't had any more patches. Sometimes I wonder if he was maybe misdiagnosed. Maybe I'm just wishing he was.

One thing I know for sure. I may be willing to pass on my hair to someone who needs it. But I am not willing to pass on my hang-up to my kid.

It's just hair, after all.

Or Maybe Not

Less than three hours later, and I've had to come back and read my last post just so I wouldn't fall into a deep pool of "I am the worst mother ever" despair.

When you're a mom, you don't have good and bad days. You have good and bad moments.

Pretty Good Mom

If I want to hear Patrick get really annoyed I only have to utter one sentence.

"I am the worst mother ever."

Even though I promised I wouldn't say that anymore, mother-guilt is a feeling too strong to contain and it still slips out from time to time.

I can annoy the hell out of my husband the exact same way. That's not to say that I want to annoy either one of them. I don't enjoy arguing with them, or anyone. But, "I am the worst mother ever," is what comes out of my mouth when I feel desperate.

Patrick always brings up some example of truly horrid maternal behavior to prove that I am not the worst mother ever. And this does not help me in the least. In my opinion, the women in his examples are not mothers at all. I am not exactly measuring myself to that standard.

God, I'm starting to feel like I've typed these exact words so many times before. This is all just set-up really, to get to the point I'm trying to get to without sounding egotistical or judgmental.

When it comes right down to it, I know that I am a damn good mother.

Why is it so hard for women to admit that?

When I say that I am the worst mother ever, what I really mean is that I am not meeting my own expectations. Regardless of what some other people might say, I do not think my expectations are too high. I think they are just right considering the healthy, intelligent children that I am lucky to have and the rather privileged situation in which we are lucky to be raising them.

First, when it comes to their health and safety I never take the easier way out.

And second, when it comes to every other aspect of their lives, values come first.

If I had to put a label on our parenting style it would be value-based.

Not too long ago, Patrick said something that stuck with me. While I was flagellating myself yet again, he said, "Oh please. Your children go to sleep every night knowing how loved they are."

That is very true. And when I was a kid, it was true for me too. How did my parents raise my brother and me?

First, when it came to our health and safety they never took the easier way out.

And second, when it came to every other aspect of our lives, values came first.

They would never have thought to put a label on their parenting style, but besides being strict (my father) and loving (my mother), it was value-based.

As hard as it is for me to get along with my parents now that we have all passed into different stages of our lives, they gave me that gift, the gift of knowing how to love and raise kids. And I am eternally thankful for that.

There is one other thing that makes me a really good mother. And it just may be the most important thing of all.

I was smart enough to choose a wonderful man as my kids' father. And I continue to put that man, our love for each other and our marriage first.

I have great kids. I am a good mom.

I am lucky.

Me?

On Friday I will be judging a middle school science fair.

You can all stop laughing now.

Testosteroni

I love the smell of testosterone in the morning!

Okay, maybe not so much. I mean, I do. But only to a point.

I love men. I love everything about men. And as much as I prayed that I wouldn't end up with two male children, so as not to drown in testosterone, I am extremely grateful to have a son.

But when my husband was cradling my tiny baby son I never thought much about how they would get along years later.

The thing is, I have two very stubborn, very proud, very strong, very independent males in my house. They have their sweet moments for sure, but even in affection they are mostly wrestling and being rough with each other.

Lately they've been driving me crazy. They push each other and push each other, and neither one will give an inch. I swear I'm going to lock them in a room together until they work it all out.

The scary thing is that my son is only five-years-old. What's it going to be like when he hits puberty?

Am I doomed to another dozen years of this?

Affliction

Just hours after my parents left for their long ride back home, my husband and I were sitting watching hockey.

"Oh! Nice move!" my husband exclaimed.

"I'm not putting out another puppy pad just for the dog to poop on!"

"Um, okay. Who said you had to?"

I heard him but didn't even process what he said.

"And there is nothing wrong with the heating! You just can't see how it works. And stay out of my attic!" I barked.

This time my husband didn't reply at all.

"You think we're too strict with the kids? Fine! They can be like your other grandkids, you know!"

My husband's eyes filled with sympathy. "They're still in your head, aren't they?"

"Yes!" I couldn't stop yelling. "I have parent-induced Tourettes."