But let me back up.
We were all playing a game where we turned off all the lights in the house and then we had to find each other. Or something. The rules have faded into the deep recesses of my memory. What I do remember is that my dad took the screen off of his bedroom window and sneaked into the backyard and then back in through another part of the house. We knew we had him cornered in one end of the house so, when he grabbed my brother from behind, the kid had no chance. So terrified was he that, upon initial contact from my dad, Jon vomited all over the carpet.
I love to scare my kids.
I'm pretty sure this is never going to win me any mother of the year awards. I'm also pretty sure it means that my nurture genes are devastatingly flawed.
All I have to do now is let out one, small, crackly moan and my boys will yell, "Mommy's a monster!" and promptly run away. One or both of them will eventually get brave and come looking for me. Their momentary absence will, however, give me plenty of time to hide myself away into some nook or cranny somewhere and give me the perfect opportunity to grab one of them as they creep anxiously around the house.
A look of panic flashes across their little faces for a split second before they dissolve into giggles.
Thankfully, to date, I've never made either boy toss his cookies.