"Stinkfist"

Okay. Enough with the texts, e-mails, phone calls and carrier pigeons. I'll write something...

The sickness that has permeated this house has finally subsided. Except for one of the dogs—who is laid up from knee surgery—everybody 'round these parts is relatively healthy. Connor is on his last day of heavy-duty antibiotics, while the rest of our immune systems have been fending for themselves—quite poorly, I might add. At least I never got diahrrea.

After picking up Connor at school today, we stopped by the vet for more pain medicine for the gimp dog and then ran by the almighty Wal-Mart for a loaf of bread and a 50 cent squirt bottle to be filled with water so I don't have to drag Connor over to the sink every morning to rid him of his perpetually bad bed-head.

On our way out of the store, Connor was riding on my shoulders. He kept putting his fingers by my mouth, so I acted like I was going to eat them whenver they got close. Connor was getting a huge kick out of it, and quickly figured out an ingenious way to keep his hands far out of reach. He kept telling me, "My hands are back here now. You can't get them, Daddy."

I figured they were behind his back, but when I saw our reflection in my car's windows I realized he had both hands jammed down the back of his diaper. When I was putting him in his carseat moments later, he smooshed his fingers in my face, laughing hysterically. I don't think he quite put it together that what he was doing was gross, but he got a kick out of it nonetheless. I didn't want his hands anywhere near me and he seemed to key in on that and capitalize while I was preoccupied.

I think we'd all be a lot healthier in this house if, instead of shaking hands with people when'st out and about, we walked around with our hands jammed down our pants.

Looks like it's catching on already...