When my husband started to work out of town, I had a fearsome worry we would run out of things to talk about on the phone, grow apart, fall out of love, divorce and he would try to take Karen and George away from me. I knew he'd never try to take our kids from me, but my appliances? Now that's vindictive. And much more his style.

However, my worries have been for naught. He has shown only a mild interest in Karen and George, while I have been caught rubbing my naked body against them and talking dirty to them more than once. Er, I mean, we have yet to run out of things to talk about during our daily phone calls, and abscence really has made my heart grow fonder.

Plus, I'm hornier than hell by the time he comes home, so he is always EAGER to return home to perform "his chores." (Was that an overshare?)

Luckily for me, our children provide us with a wealth of conversational gold. Between the time I spend relaying their charming and dumbass moments, venting about my parental ineptitude and having him lecture Fric and Frac sternly over the phone about the values of team work and mommy's sanity, I hardly manage to squeeze in any dirty talk or gossip. (I said hardly manage. There is ALWAYS time for dirty talk and gossip in my world.)

Yesterday's call was no exception. While I was humped over a wheelbarrow, mixing soil and planting bedding flowers, Fric and Frac started reminiscing about their little brother.

How he loved being outside, how the grass prickles drove him buggy, how they would bounce him like a 30 pound sac of potatoes on the trampoline. Eventually, their talk migrated from happy memories to more dirty ones.

"Remember the time Bug pooped while Mom was outside and his diaper came undone and he managed to scooch down the hall into the kitchen leaving a trail of poo behind him? Remember how he fingerpainted in the poo? Remember Mom having a heart attack when she discovered it? Remember how she tried to bribe us into cleaning it up for her?"

(That's an unreliable fuzzy childhood recollection. I would never sink so low as offering an eight and seven year old money to clean up their brother's feces.)

Ahem. After they finished smearing my good name (get it...smearing? hehe) they moved on to more morbid topics.

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"Mom, who's going to be buried next to Shalebug?"

"Who ever dies first. We bought two plots next to him, so in theory there is one for you and Frac if you don't hurry up and mow my damn lawn."

"So, if we die, we will be buried beside him?"

"That is what I said. However, the intention is for you to live a long and healthy life and bury me and your father next to your brother."

"Cool. Does this mean that when you kick it, we will be able to pick what it says on your headstone?"

"I guess. Why?"

"I was just thinking about what I would put on your marker."

"Really...And just what do you have in mind?" I'm slightly worried now. After all, the adoption process isn't finished just yet and there is still a therapist floating about waiting to discover how I've truly corrupted my small children.

I never did find out the answer, because luckily for me, her brother was stung by a wasp at that exact moment and his shrieks of pain and fury drown out her reply. The conversation was soon forgotten as I administered first aid to a puffy nine year old.

However, later that evening when I was relaying the days events to Boo, the strange conversation reared up again.

"What do you think she was going to say?" Boo asked.

"Oh, knowing Fric, she probably was going to tell me that she is going to engrave 'World's Greatest Mother. Ever.' or some such thing."

Silence. Was that the faint sound of sniggering I was hearing over the line?

"Yah," he gasped. "I'm sure that's it. Because she has your sweet and serene disposition. There is no possible way she would use this as an opportunity to call you a pain-in-the-ass-mother-lover or some such thing. You, my darling, have delusions of grandeur."

"Bite me, Boo."

"Gladly. Just ten more days before you're wish is my command."

People wonder why I hide in the pantry and drink. Between the kiddies who won't stop getting smarter and the husband who is finally wisening up after a decade of abuse, it is growing harder to wield my whip authority every day.

Damn it. Maybe I need another dog.