Today we went to a huge park. As we were leaving, Lorenzo asked, “Where’s my hat?” After some discussion, it was clear no one knew where it was last seen. I pulled out of the park with him wailing, “But I don’t want to leave my favorite hat.” Just as we cross the town line, you can look back and see the entire stretch of long, rolling hill. Way up at the top, I swear, we could see this yellow speck.

“It’s his hat!!!” Fiona cried. “I know it’s a long way up there, but if it will make him happy, I’ll get it. I’d walk ten miles for him.”

It was his hat. I’m still wondering who that girl was.

My husband is 43 and his sister is 40. They still – to this DAY – engage in “Last Lick.”

“Lick” is Southern for “punch.” As in:
“I get last lick!” ::pow! punch in the arm::

This has got to be THE longest-running game based on the premise that Sisters are gross, Brothers are gross-er.

Here’s to hoping your kids don’t try to beat their record. *clink*