I just went down to the living room with the bucket that hasn't left my side all day, and carrying a small bowl with a spoon in it that had held vanilla pudding I had eaten in an effort to settle my stomach. Johnny asked "What's that, Dad?" Man, I hate dumb questions.
"It's a bowl of puke from my puke bucket, and I brought it to you so it wouldn't be wasted...now, eat it..." and I held it out to him. He acted like I had offered him a live cobra, and couldn't scoot to the other end of the couch fast enough.
Nat was mocking him, so I made as if to stick it in her face, and she did a back-flip up and over the couch, putting it between me and her. Then I saw her face rise slightly up to check on me, doing a pretty good imitation of Kilroy.
The wife spends a lot of time squatted behind the kitchen counter, quaking and holding both hands over her mouth to stifle laughter. Sometimes I'll bring the kids back there and tell them "Now look! You went and made your Mother cry!" And she shrieks laughter through her hands and I tell the kids to get in there and 'comfort their Mother' and they solemnly go in and begin to pet and pat her and say "It's okay, Mommy..." and by now she is down on her hands and knees, and gasping for air. "She's choking!" I yell, and their eyes bug out and they begin to slap her on her back, all over, because it seems to work on TV.
One of these days, the kids are gonna learn how to dial 911, and I'm gonna be screwed.
Later, she'll call me on the intercom in my room and hiss "You prick! The little assholes slapped me around all over the place! They cried when you ran from the room saying you 'just couldn't take it anymore'....I'm gonna have fucking bruises!"
My work here is through...