"A hundred million terrorists in the world and I kill one with feet smaller than my sister." - Bruce Willis, Die Hard

This picture will make sense in a minute. I promise.

Election day (for the primaries) has passed. That’s nice. Now instead of Republican bickering, I can hear Republican vs. Democrat bickering. It’s less like sibling rivalry and more like a good neighbor feud. If we’re lucky, maybe there’ll be a bare-knuckle brawl, or at least some dog poop thrown over a fence or two.

I can (for this brief moment) listen to the radio and not hear ads indicating I should (or shouldn’t) vote for someone based upon their (alleged) acne problem when they were fifteen, or how a candidate doesn’t love children as much as the other or . . . I’ll stop here so I don’t give people ideas.

I still get the regular ads on radio, but they’re somewhat harmless. Mostly.

I was giving The Boy and Pugsley a bath the other night. The Boy was talking, as usual. Mostly I tune it out, because the last thing I don’t want to be known as is a parent who cares. It’s a weakness kids can turn against you.

In this case, The Boy lifted his right foot out of the water and pointed at his heel.

The Boy: “Why does alcohol hurt you here?”

This was interesting. I decided to see where it would go.

Me: “What??”

The Boy: “Alcohol hurts your feet-us.”

Me: “Ohhhhhhhh.”

The Mrs. allows The Boy to listen to a (monitored) number of local radio stations. On one of the stations, a public service announcement runs that indicates, “Any amount of alcohol is dangerous to your fetus.” (I almost spelled it feet-us just now). I recalled this and chuckled.

Me: “No, alcohol won’t hurt your feet, unless you’re running naked down an alley at 2AM and you stub your toe in the dark.”

The Boy: “What?”

Me: “Never mind. Long story.”

Then comes the long explanation of what a fetus is. Actually it was short. Wikipedia to the rescue! The clean pajama-clad The Boy and I looked at a picture posted there from Leonardo daVinci (okay, he didn’t post it, somebody else did, but it was his sketch) and The Boy understood. The Boy said, “Oh, it’s a baby.”

Maybe I should have waited to tell him. Say, just after college graduation. But he’d probably be faster than me then, because he had good feet-us.