Yesterday, Scotlyn and I saw an alligator on the way home from town. 

No big deal, really, considering we live in southern Louisiana, but I'll admit to it being excited.  Scotlyn was overjoyed and wanted to bring him home as a pet.  Do you see this big boy?  He's far enough way to not measure him, but I'd put him at no less than six feet.  No thanks. 

After posting the picture on Facebook, Chad called and wanted to know where we'd seen him.  I told him off the road about two miles from our house, just on the other side of the river we live close to. 

"Now you know you have gators," says Oh Wise One.

"Of course there are gators down here, but they aren't in our lake."

"Of course not."  I detected sarcasm.  "They stay on the other side of the river."

"This was an itty bitty swamp right by the river.  We live a mile from the river, and our lake is big.  Big lakes don't have gators."

"Lake Placid." 

Did I raise this boy?  Did I bring him into this world to have him treat me like this?  I'm pretty sure I put my best effort into having a Mama's boy, and look how he turned out.  Where did I go wrong?

Here's another example, from a couple years ago (and also a prime reason I no longer believe in having fun with my children):

I took my children tubing, thinking they would enjoy it.  Pssshhh.  While on the river, a storm began brewing.  Lightning struck in the distance and thunder rumbled, but there was nowhere to leave the water.  The banks were high and covered in trees and vines and the such.  We were more likely to get snake-bit if we got out than lightning-struck if we stayed in.  So instead I had to endure this for two hours.

Ainsley screaming bloody murder, trying to drag me from my tube with dagger-sharp nails.  She would not be reassured that the storm was miles away.  It wasn't even raining.  Scotlyn was worried but not to the extent of gnashing of teeth.  She was also more upset that she didn't have her mp3 player with her and she could have gone to Karis's house if I'd told her it was going to storm.  For the last time, I'm sorry.

Pierson hunkered down for the duration, staying as far away from the ear piercing shrieks as I would allow. 

Then there was Chad.  Chad stayed close.  Wasn't that sweet of him, to help me out with the fearsome child?  Hmmm.  After a short time (hour, hour and a half, who's counting) I had her down to a dull roar of worries when the next rumble of thunder sounded. She shuddered, but held still.  My brave girl.

Chad, my first born, the "man" of the house while his father was away, took it upon himself to sing to her in her time of need.

"We're all gonna die.
No one will find us,
cuz we're all gonna fry.
The lightning's gonna hit us,
And we're all gonna die."

Every. Single. Lightning. Strike.  He sang that song. She shrieked.  He sang louder.

He's still alive, which just proves the power of a mother's love.