(Scene: Aunt Becky, outside, underneath the rosebed, cursing my climbing roses, my lack of gardening gloves, the cats for peeing on my last nice set of gloves, and the stupid privacy screen for holding onto the fungus that causes black spot. The voices of little children can be heard in the background.)

Aunt Becky (fantasizing) “Grumble, grumble, I’ll fucking turn this cat into a fucking pair of slippers for pissing on my gloves.”

Alex, Age 5, (swoops over and plops on a tiny blue child-sized chair): “Mama, I’m bored.”

Aunt Becky: “Go play with Mark Zuckerberg.” (points at the peacock statue under the tree).

mark zuckerberg

Aunt Becky (mutters): “Need to get some statues of the Brothers Winklevii. Flamingos? Gnomes? MOTHERFUCKING BUTTERFLIES?”

Alex (still sitting in the chair, grumbling): “Nah, that’s boring. I wanna swing.”

Aunt Becky: “Wait your turn, J.”

Alex (begins to smile broadly): “Hahahahahaah! Ben* peed in the yard!”

Aunt Becky (turns head in Exorcist-type fashion):Whaaaaat?”

Alex (laughing so hard he can barely breathe): “Yep. He peed on the swing!”

Aunt Becky (recalling a similar incident several days prior): “BEN – GET OVER HERE NOW.”

Alex (giggling manically- scatological humor is, apparently, genetic): “He just whipped his penis out and started peeing!)

Aunt Becky (Furious George – about to throw down)

Ben (wanders over and looks down at me, under the rosebush, clearly confused): “What’s up, Mom?”

Aunt Becky (teeth gritted): “Did you pee in the yard – AGAIN?”

Ben (confused look): “No?”

Aunt Becky (knowing this child conveniently “forgets” things he’s done unless I’m particularly specific with him): “Your brother just said you did.

Ben (still confused): “I did NOT! He’s lying!”

Aunt Becky (looks around for Alex for confirmation – does not see him in the chair): “Whaaaa?”

Ben: “ALEX, YOU STOLE MY SWING!”

Alex (laughing so hard he can barely speak): “I. stole. your. swing!” (erupts into gales of laughter)

Aunt Becky (secretly high-fiving the kid for being so cunning): “Alex - we don’t lie. Off the swings, both of you!”

Ben and Alex scamper off to play in the tree house that is not yet, in fact, a panic room ***.

Aunt Becky (beaming quietly with maternal pride as she goes back to her roses): “Atta boy.”

*my son, not the Guy On My Couch**

**I hope

***I have plans – GRAND plans for a panic room in my treehouse.

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