Some days, it's terrifying,

that brief moment before my children open their mouths (if, that is, they've been temporarily closed after vuvuzela-ing) to answer another person's question. See, I have a friend who likes to remind me that apples don't make pears and why in the world would two sarcastic, witty, smartasses ever make children who were compliant and sweet? And she's right. More interesting, in my opinion, is the fact that I often reflect to imagine a world with sweet, compliant little children, dressed neatly with combed down hair and, like Cordie after her ascension to the heavens, I want to exclaim I'm so. . . bored. Not that kids like that aren't great - they serve the fantastic function of being walking mannequins for their parents and fulfilling their own parents' needs to have children just like them. They often grow up to be highly beautiful and successful and rarely attend a party with a Chiquita banana sticker stuck to their buttocks. They also write Thank You Notes often and on time. Like I said, they're important. They're even cool in that retro-chic kind of way. But they're not my kids.

My kids? My kids are the ones with the sticking-up hair dressed like eighties tv star Blossom in clothing inappropriate for the weather and, recently, with temporary tattoos on their necks. My son's teacher recently exclaimed With the Budge, everything's a full-body experience. And she's not wrong. My kids are also the ones, when asked a question, suddenly pique the interest of all around. My kids have that whole post-modern-meta-George-Michael-Bluth thing down pat.

For example, The Budge goes to a preschool that is connected with our church. Recently, during one of their first Thursday morning chapel sessions, Pastor Julie asked the group of preschoolers the following question: Did you know that God loves you very, very much?

Without missing a beat, my son answered, throwing his hands in the air: Yes. YES! YES! Why do you people keep telling me this! I know this! When are you going to stop?

I'm delighted that my son's got that whole faith thing down enough to understand the deep and abiding love of Christ. I think that's awesome. Equally awesome is the depth of his understanding being deep enough that to say it out loud seems as meaningless as to say Did you know the sun will rise tomorrow? Perhaps even more awesome, of course, is that the ensuing hijinks in his expression have earned him a spot in the hearts of many and the consistent greeting from family and friends: Hey Carter. Did you know God loves you very, very much?

Church, actually, is the place we, his parents, live in fear. Every time he clambers (and he really does clamber, for the record) up for the Children's sermon, we begin our silent prayer: Don'taskquestionsdon'taskquestionspleasegoddon'tletpastoraskanyquestions. But God's too busy loading up the perfect scenario for Carter's answer to hear our prayers, I think.

On another Thursday morning chapel, Carter decided to share his excitement regarding the impending birth of baby Elsa. My mom's going to have a baby soon. And we're going to have it hypnomatized here. We're all set. I've put in my personal request that the hypnomatized baby be told to sleep well, be a good eater, and be very well behaved, but I'm going to guess, judging from the two we've got, that it's not very likely.

And I shouldn't solely focus on The Budge. After all, his sister, she's a handful in and of herself, though as I tell my students, one can rarely convey proper tone in text and these days, that girl is all about tone. It's not so much what she says - it's how she says it. From the physical ticks to the eye rolls and intonation, I can tell you this: She's growing into a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure.