Did I give birth to Jeffrey Dahmer? My soon to be 5-year-old demanded dessert and made a threat when I refused. “Give me a doughnut or I’m going to kill the dog.” He and my husband laughed. I have a sick sense of humor, but what the hell? Don’t serial killers start with Fido? It’s funny when he tells a knock, knock joke that doesn’t make any sense. I am even amused when he mispronounces words. I was horrified and called my mother for advice. Should I call a psychiatrist or exorcist? She insisted I was over reacting. After all, this is the same boy who worries if you are sick and likes to snuggle. He also has a smile that lights up a room and tells me a hundred times a day how much he loves me. Perhaps he shouldn’t have watched Nightmare on Elm Street. I’m kidding people. I wouldn’t let him watch horror movies. I still get goosebumps on that street or if I see someone wearing a stripped sweater. If Freddie wore a pink Polo golf shirt he would have been more likable. I suppose it wouldn’t have the same effect. (Or is it affect? I usually just pick another word.) Regardless, I caught my son hugging the dog yesterday. I still can’t find the damn cat though. (I’m joking. We don’t have one.)
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