Me: Put on your shoes, please.
Him: I don't like the way they feel.

Me: Can you pick out a bedtime story?
Him: Why do I always have to pick it out?

Me (sing-songy): It's homework time!
Him: It's not fair. I'm the only kid in the whole, entire world who has to do homework.

Me: Here you go! I made you some hot chocolate while you were out playing in the snow.
Him (eye roll): It's too hot. And too chocolatey.

Me: Are you ready for me to rinse out your shampoo?
Him: Don't get it in my eyes. You always get it in my eyes and it makes them hurt and I don't like shampoo. Even the shampoo that they say doesn't hurt hurts. And make sure the water's not too warm. Because if it's too warm, it makes the shampoo feel like it's hurting me even when it isn't.

Me: How was your day?
Him: Fine, I guess. That is, if you like DAYS.

Me: Here's your grilled cheese.
Him: Did anything on this plate have to die for my lunch? I don't see anything dead.

Me: Check it out! Daddy got a mohawk! A BLUE MOHAWK!!
Him: Meh.

Me: Can you believe it? They say the world is going to be sucked into a black hole next December and that all of humanity is going to evaporate.
Him: They also say that that shampoo won't hurt. But it does. Because you rinse it all wrong.

Me: Whoa! I just ripped off my penis and now I'm holding my ripped-off penis in my hands.
Him: When can I get a DS? Everyone else has a DS.

Me: Look what your grandparents bought you! A real, live unicorn with a 14K gold horn and a saddle made of caramel.
Him: Does it poop real poop or sapphires?
Me: Um......sapphires?
Him: BO-ring.

Bill Newman is pretty convinced the world IS going to end. Because last week, he got to watch an entire half of a basketball game without someone cramming a Transformer up his ass. He can be reached at an email he no longer gives out.

Stop swearing.
Ditto.
Eat more vegetables.
Exercise.
Like quiche Lorraine. That has vegetables, right? No? It has ham? Dang.
Learn French.
Forget French. Like you'll ever go to Paris. Yeah, right. Still...Paris.
Dare to dream.
Oh, for fuck's sake, Little Joey! Tie your own goddamn shoes! Mommy's busy.
Teach little Joey to tie his own goddamn shoes.
Also, teach little Joey to save now for his college education, because -- on what you make -- there is no chance. No chance, buddy.
But, if the kid can't tie his shoes, you probably don't have a lot of higher education to worry about.
That was terribly mean. What kind of mother are you?
Answer the question through journaling: What Kind of Mother Are You?
Blog.
Worry less.
Worry a lot less, goddamnit. There is nothing wrong with Velcro sneakers. Who cares what his **nty second grade teacher says.
Blog more.

Elizabeth is a stay-at-home mother of two. Before having kids, she worked in corporate and foundation relations, and before that at the Museum of Science, Boston. She moonlights writing in the very early mornings before everyone gets up and wants things. In the little free time she has, Elizabeth makes complicated French patries to tempt her kids into doing what she asks. Her work has appeared in terrain.org, The Delmarva Review, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Tar River Poetry, and the Baltimore City Paper. Visit her blog: Goody Bastos. Elizabeth can be reached at: elizabeth.bastos@gmail.com.

Dear Talking Hot Dog,
Listen up, you freak. Stay away from my kid. You got that? Stay the hell away. I don't care that you live in a hole in the ground near our swingset and prefer turkey over ham. I don't care that you like riding next to my son on his way to and from school. And I don't care how much you like it when he buckles your tiny seatbelt and gives you a loving pat on your antlers. You are a CYCLOPS for cryin' out loud! You're a weiner with a voice! You sound not unlike something a mustachioed 1980's high school custodian would have tried to "introduce" me to after cheerleading practice. I don't like you, Talking Hot Dog. Not one bit. So, before my son gets home, you better pack your acorn suitcase and get gone. Oh. I forgot. You're ALWAYS NAKED! You wouldn't HAVE any clothes to pack in a suitcase. YOU SICK, SAD, SORRY BASTARD. Get the hell out of my lawn before I call the goddamn cops! SCRAM!

Best,
Whitney Collins

Whatever, at least I don't have Taylor Momsen in my Top Artists list on Spotify.

You are so going to regret this when you see my Klout score, because if there is one thing I'm influential in it's knowing when it's time to quit you.

It seems like a good time to point out that I've been retweeted by Khloe Kardashian who added that she was ROFL so think about that when a 9-foot-tall black dude in a Lakers tracksuit shows up at your door.

Yeah, well you just cost yourself a Google+ invite. And if some whore gives you one, the only circle you'll be added to is the "Lamer than a Macchiato Without Caramel" one.

I maybe would care more if I weren't talking to someone with an active Hotmail account. And not just for American Eagle emails.

I have a screen shot of the email you sent to Jamster requesting a Jersey Shore nickname. So fist pump that, Tan Jovi.

Only one of us can say we have never sent a text to cast a vote on American Idol. And that same one of us knows it was for Clay Aiken.

Like you need to bother blocking me on BBM. Because, duh, I have an iPhone.

I'll be removing every location tag attached to your name from my Facebook so that when people ask me who I went to Panera with I can say Robert Pattinson and not you.

This mildly famous blogger responded to one of my comments by saying that you are codependent jerk who takes me for granted and probably still goes to Blockbuster. And she's right. You have $19 in late fees from a Zach Galifianakis movie that I'm not paying.

Erin writes the website I'm Gonna Kill Him, a humor place about marriage and husbands and life after family. Her mother says she has a sharp tongue; Erin says it's better than a sharp knife. She is a mother of three and just moved to the very bizarre state of Maine. Between her husband, her children, and the weirdness of Mainers, she has a lot of fodder. She can be reached at: imgonnakillhim@gmail.com.

The dude who rocked silk stockings on the cover of Fleur-De-Lis Quarterly 310 years ago has been reincarnated as a three-year-old boy.

The Sun King is back -- BOOYAH! -- and putting the smack-down on feudalism by pitting parental nobility against each other.

His mom: a rising star in the domestic ballet, earned lead role in "A Midsummer Night's Milk-And-Three-Books-Song-Potty-Song-Milk-And-Three-Books."

His father: preferred castle-builder, a powerful force at the grill, forgiven for lack of mutton.

Both have been demoted to vassals numerous times, earning back the status of courtier through baked goods and stickers. (Their motto: "Better vassals than chattel.")

While small and adorable, the pint-sized monarch ensures that he alone commands attention, often screaming, "L'ETAT C'EST MOI!"

And it's true. He is the State. Da State of Demands.

He demands only the best attire. Sorely disappointed to find the castle lacking in powdered wigs, breeches, and cravats, he's had to make do with interesting undergarments that he promptly urinates through because he wants to or because the Royal Bedpan-Bringer is late or because it's fun to watch the Royal-Bedpan-Bringer get angry.

He demands to be called "Le Roi Soleil" and makes Nobility #1 cry -- Wah, wah, wah! (Yes! pronounce it like that!) and makes Nobility #2 play the song "Bad Bad Leroy Soleil (The Meanest Man In The Whole Damn Bay)."

He then demands to be called "Louis Quatorze" or just "Quatorze" because it sounds more gangsta.

He demands the divine right of kings, claiming he is subject to no earthly authority. He plunders, refuses, stomps, screams, throws -- then raises his eyebrows, silently declaring: "Will of God, bitch. Will of God."

The King is a great patron of the arts, his enthusiasm for classic literature like "Curious George by Moliere" and "Babar In the Words of Racine" is legendary, as is his love of music -- "Here Comes the Sun (King)" and art --surely de Kooning's abstract work is a meditation on the beauty of a centralized state government.

Although a serious chap about legal matters (see les Grandes Ordonnances: "To Nap Is Sinful," "Cut Me My Mango," "I'll Poop In the Bedpan When I Damn Well Want To"), the King also has a delightful sense of humor.

His greatest enjoyment comes from a series of parlor games, like "I'm the Good Guy and You're Cardinal Richelieu," "Who Wore It Best: The Dauphin or That Other Kid," and "Get the Protestant, He Took My Truck!"

Since Louis XIV had one of the longest reigns of any European monarch, one can only assume he's here to stay in the Fisherprice Versailles Playroom for the foreseeable future.

Which is okay by the serfs who work for him.

"He's learning to use the bedpan more and more each day," the mother says smiling. "And I know once I find him that ostrich feather hat he's been demanding, I'll be in his good graces for at least an hour."

The father agrees, "And I'm not just saying this because he threw a dirt clod at me that he swears contains gold."

On such good terms are the King and his subjects at this very minute that they quickly sign the Peace of Suburban Westphalia.

Which is revoked 7 minutes later when the King discovers that Honey Fitzgerald III, a small stuffed bear residing in his kingdom, is in fact, a Huguenot.

Tarja Parssinen is a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom to a toddler who gives new meaning to the word "spirited." Once, long ago, she was a member of her college's sketch comedy group, which she continues to blame for public displays of ego. She blogs at The Flying Chalupa and is expecting her second bundle of terror in the fall. 

Halloween is one of the most exciting holidays of the year. It's the only day that you are given a license to go out and cause mischief without being punished. As an adult, I feel we have a duty to make this event as fun as possible for the children of the neighborhood. Not only should we be obligated to give candy to the trick-or-treaters, but we should also be obligated to go out of our way to make sure they have an excellent time.

When we talk about Halloween, we have to talk about pranks. After all, that's one of the major components of any memorable 31st of October. Kids go around toilet papering houses, throwing eggs at cars, and playing a million other tricks on unsuspecting victims. They love pranks. Furthermore, the last thing they want is to go through Halloween without getting pranked in return. They went out of their way to egg my car, so now I have an obligation to return the favor in any manner I see fit.

So, it's a dark Halloween night and the children are out trick-or-treating in force. In order to really give them what they want, I first have to decide what that is exactly -- beyond the basic prankings. This isn't too difficult. Kids really like candy. And being frightened, especially on a night such as this. With this in mind, all I need to do is wait for them to come knock on my door, give them some candy corn, and then take out a machete and act like I'm going to kill them. This works because children find murder scary. As they turn and run away, I always feel profound joy knowing I just gave them exactly what they wanted: a little candy mixed in with a little fright.

Usually, as a little added bonus, I'll shout things at the kids as they're running like, "AFTER I KILL YOU I'M COMING FOR YOUR PARENTS!" Then I'll shoot a rifle in the air or something. This way I can ensure that the fright won't wear off too early and they can really enjoy the rest of their night.

As it turns out, rifle shots are a really good way to scare not only the trick-or-treaters, but also everyone else in the neighborhood. I usually do such a good job, in fact, that I won't get anymore knocks on my door for the rest of the night. That's why I have to go out and search for more children to scare. And I know you're probably thinking, "Aren't you going pretty far out of your way?" Yes, I am, but it's for the children.

So, I'm out driving around looking for kids to startle. One of the first things I'll do is pull my van up next to a dark alley and tell any trick-or-treater I see that I have candy. What's great about this is, it may not scare the children all that much, but if they have a parent with them, the parent seems to get really freaked out. I just laugh to myself thinking how parents are even easier to scare than children in a lot of ways. Here I am, sitting in my van offering candy to only the children, and it's the parents that are all spooked. Go figure.

After everyone scurries away, I sit there and wonder what's so scary about a guy parked in a van on Halloween asking children if they want candy. But that's usually when I remember that I have a dark alley right behind me. No wonder they were so frightened.

Anyway, after the night is through, I can go home and feel great knowing that I gave everyone just what they were looking for. I gave the children candy and the prospect of being murdered, and I gave the parents the chilling sight of an alley. I just hope I can be as effective next year, when I try fake kidnapping a child only to return him or her in the morning. Boy, will everyone be relieved when they realize it was only a harmless Halloween prank and not a real kidnapping! They'll probably try giving me some kind of award, which will be embarrassing because I won't have anyone to thank but myself.

Richard Turck is a 29-year-old human being who enjoys certain things more than others. His humor writings have been found lurking in various places across the web. If you happen to spot one, proceed with extreme caution as they are considered armed and dangerous. Richard can be reached at: turck212@yahoo.com.

Welcome aboard Honda Odyssey Flight 7875, bound for the Greater Orlando area. Our travel time is approximately 16 excruciating hours. At your convenience, please review the safety instructions located in the seat back in front of -- oh. That's right. Three out of four of you can't read. Never mind the safety instructions, then. Just keep your hands to yourself and your underpants on. On your bottom, that is, and not your head.

In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, please put on your Halloween masks and entertain yourself while Mommy and Daddy drive to the nearest Applebee's and begin drinking. Kindly note that this is a non-whining flight, or else Daddy may have to take up smoking again. Also take note, there are no lavatories on board, though we will allow you to pee in a cup if A) there is a ridiculously long traffic jam or B) we just stopped and we're not stopping again for at least 4 hours. There is no pooping on this flight. You must hold it until we get to our hotel, which is now 15 hours and 58 minutes away.

In the event of an emergency that does not involve bodily fluids, Daddy will yell "Brace! Brace!" This does not mean you should smack your sister on the head with an Etch-A-Sketch. But it probably means we need to stop for Starbucks.

No, we are not there yet.

No, we are still not there.

Remember: this van is equipped with two emergency exits. But they will not open unless the car is in "park." So, don't think of throwing yourself from the vehicle, unless you're a parent. In which case, have at it and why haven't you done so sooner?

During the flight, luggage may shift. Especially when someone vomits and Mommy has to climb back three rows of seats to find the suitcase on the bottom that has a clean shirt in it. While Mommy is bent over doing this, do not laugh at her ass crack. Yes, I said "ass crack," dammit.

Holy sweet baby of all things holy how are we not even out of our neighborhood?

Once we reach a comfortable cruising altitude, you absolutely are NOT free to move around the cabin. However, Honda Odyssey Airlines does pride itself on providing its passengers with thousands of dollars of complimentary electronic devices. Please put on your headphones now and begin listening to your music and your movies and your video games.

Here are some free pretzels, too.

Now. Please, leave Mommy and Daddy alone. Because if you don't, we are totally cancelling our character breakfast at Cinderella's Royal Table.

Enjoy your flight.

Jason Rock sometimes writes, but mostly uses his spare moments for sleeping or watching Beyond Scared Straight. He can't believe he owns a minivan.

Only a few things mattered when I was 7 years old. Avoiding soap and covering my hands in Elmer's glue were fairly high on my list of things to do. Performing well in the trailer park athletic events, such as kickball and whiffle ball, was also a priority. But more importantly, I wanted to befriend Gary.

Gary was nine years older than me and lived next door, which was a sandbox away. On the evenings that I'd hear his jambox blaring, I'd rush outside and do my best to get noticed. Occasionally, Gary would look over, twitch his head upward in acknowledgment, and immediately return to his activity. I'd twitch my head in the same fashion, but he'd already quit looking.

Gary was rock 'n' roll. I was more of the "One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple People Eater" material, but my juvenile blood was tainted with rebellion. And it would show in my stirring attempts to deserve Gary's attention. I would climb all the way to the top of the three-foot high doghouse and recklessly jump off. I would kick the side of our trailer. I would play air-guitar to the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold" because that's the only song I ever heard Gary listen to. I honestly believe that he had a 60-minute tape consisting of about 18 consecutive cuts of "Centerfold." Sometimes I would yell curse words. They weren't necessarily directed at anything or anybody, or always put into a proper context, but I didn't care -- I was wild. "Did you hear that, Gary? A wild sonuvabitch!"

Gary wore sleeveless shirts and huffed gasoline. I wore three-quarter length sleeved shirts and chugged Kool-Aid like it was water. He had dropped out of school. I disliked school. He had a knife attached to his belt. I had a "Dukes of Hazzard" belt buckle that weighed three ounces less than my head. He had a bad haircut. I had a bad haircut. The similarities were endless.

And then one Saturday afternoon, the confrontation finally happened. My dad was preoccupied with cutting the grass, and I was hanging out doing nothing in particular. I heard an unfamiliar voice pump its way between the lawnmower and the music. But this wasn't a diesel voice. This was unleaded all the way.

"Hey Joey," the gaseous orifice spoke.

I could not believe my ears. Gary knew my name. I got as close to his backyard as I'd ever been, though I kept my sandbox headquarters within diving distance. It was familiar and I was intimidated. And besides that, I wasn't supposed to associate with Gary. He was a bad kid. But I was convinced that he was no worse than me. I'd received my fair share of spankings.

"Hey Gary, watcha' doin'?" I asked with genuine interest.

"Ah, nothin' man. Come on over and hang out. We'll jam," Gary answered.

This was it! All of the jumping, kicking, air-instrumental mayhem, and cursing had earned me a pass into Gary's huff-haven. But I was afraid that he was going to ask me to partake in some gasoline. I'd heard it was bad for the brain. But even more pressing, I didn't know how to huff.

Luckily, Gary was stingy with the petro-inhalant. As I sat there uncomfortably while he fixed, I couldn't help but think of how his sister, Lorie, would steal my mom's cigarettes when nobody was home. And I thought about how Gary and Lorie looked nothing alike; and about how if Gary made a "vroom, vroom" noise he could easily be mistaken for an idiot; and also how "Centerfold" wasn't playing. Music that I'd never heard before provided the noise, but it still possessed that Geilsesque attitude.

My brain was in examinational overdrive, while the other half of the dyad's brain was in the process of being flooded. I struggled to think of something to talk about, but I wasn't a connoisseur of fine fuels. So, I asked what was in that refrigerator in their backyard.

Gary answered, "Nothin'."

I'd sat there for about 45 minutes when Gary stood up and said, "Well, see ya' man." And he walked inside.

So, I crossed back into lameland, where the gas was for vehicles and where people conversed, feeling a little more defiant, a little more crazy, and a little more rock 'n' roll. I knew it was going to take many more encounters to catapult me into Garydom, but I was young, I was eager, and I was prepared for the trip. All I needed was some fuel.

"My blood runs cold, my memory has just been sold..."

Children are a giant black hole of need. If you try to meet all their demands, your will to live will be sucked into their gravitational pull and never seen again. So, as a parent, it's important to keep your goals simple. All you have to do is get the child to adulthood. This means: (1) Keeping them alive when they're infants; (2) Keeping them from killing themselves when they're toddlers; and (3) Not killing them yourself once they reach adolescence.

Keeping your baby alive is miserable, thankless work that should prepare you for the miserable, thankless years ahead. This first stage of parenting is particularly difficult because infants are lazy. They are unwilling to perform even the simplest tasks, so the full burden of their survival is on you. At this point the new parent must develop a steely resolve. If the tiny helpless infant is too much for you, just wait until you meet the jerk that throws his food and refuses to aim his pee into the toilet.

The next stage of parenting, the toddler years, is marked by the child's increasing physical competency. Yet the toddler is strikingly stupid, and apparently determined to kill himself. No matter how many child safety devices you attach to various surfaces around your home, your toddler will find something to fall over or poke in his eye. While you must keep the toddler from killing himself, you should allow him to hurt himself all he wants. It's the only way he'll wise up and stop doing stupid things. Your duty, then, is to keep the child alive while letting him discover that the world is quite willing to let him kill himself.

Successful parenting during the early years results in a live adolescent. Ironically, you will then find yourself wanting to kill them. A desire to avoid felony charges may prevent you from actually harming the adolescent child, but you shouldn't depend on it. A 2-year-old with a death wish seems like a model of rational thought compared to a teenager. Vast amounts of anecdotal evidence indicate that it is impossible to make the adolescent child likable, so you must make him useful. One way to do this is to assign him household chores. You are less likely to lock your adolescent child out of the house, for example, if it means you have to do the dishes yourself.

Another way to keep from killing your adolescent child is to remember that he could do something that reflects well on you -- like win a contest or hit a home run. Living vicariously through your child is one of the great rewards of parenthood. Your child may resent your using his childhood to improve your status and self-esteem, but that's just selfish. One day you will die, and then your child can pursue his own needs. In the meantime, suggest that he write angry poems or otherwise vent his pent-up rage in a way that amuses you.

Requiring nothing more of the parent than to keep the child alive may seem to set the bar too low. But children are, by nature, parasites. They will use you for whatever resources you are willing to provide and then farm you out to some state-run nursing home. Trying to support their emotional, social, and intellectual development, therefore, is just asking for trouble. By focusing your efforts purely on his survival, you will raise a self-sufficient adult who is fully capable of finding a good therapist.

Beverly Petravicius is a freelance writer and mother of three living in Chicago. She can be reached at: bgpnstj@yahoo.com.

The local paper ran a piece that got me thinking. This is rare since their reporting is usually limited to fascinating announcements like the fudge shop is now offering a staggering 17 flavors or that five out of five polled residents would engage in sexual relations on the Fenway field if given the opportunity. This particular day, however, they printed a list of text acronyms that would appeal to the middle-aged cell phone user, such nuggets as ROFLCGU which means Rolling On The Floor Laughing, Can’t Get Up.

Reading the list got me thinking about my dreadful telephone relationship with my husband, G. I've written before about the many ways G and I are ill-suited to remote communication. Neither of us particularly enjoys speaking on the phone in ideal conditions, but introduce -- on my end -- three children trying to kill themselves in the bathroom the instant I bring the receiver to my ear and -- on his end -- a bunch of people in suits clamoring to get sign-off on budgets, and you've got a couple praying that a cell phone-induced brain tumor makes one of us drop dead immediately. As a result, we've taken to texting each other. Because nothing says romance like the red blink of a blackberry containing misspelled questions and commands.

Here is a list of handy text shorthand for your marriage.

HIM: HAK? (How are kids?)
YOU: CFV (Crying, fighting, vomiting)

HIM: SFC? (Stop for condoms?)
YOU: NSFIC (Nah, stop for ice cream)

HIM: RL (Running late)
YOU: REL (Running even later)

HIM: BGOT (Big game on tonight)
YOU: TWSBWC (That’s why sports bars were created)

HIM: AYSM? (Are you spending money?)
YOU: LTAWIS (Let's talk about what I'm saving)

HIM: WAYW? (What are you wearing?)
YOU: SWTFE? (Sweats, what the fuck else?)

HIM: WLT (Working late tonight)
YOU: SYBPOYJIYDLN (Sending your boss photos of your junk if you don't leave now)

YOU: ATNA? (At Target, need anything?)
HIM: NAEHTC (No, and empty half the cart)

HIM: AKA? (Are kids asleep?)
YOU: NTHSLAW2B (No, they have the stamina of Lance Armstrong with 2 balls)

HIM: WRU? (Where are you?)
YOU: SEWIGSPL (Stress-eating and weeping in the grocery store parking lot)

HIM: WFD? (What's for dinner?)
YOU: Pretend your phone died

Erin writes the website I'm Gonna Kill Him, a humor place about marriage and husbands and life after family. Her mother says she has a sharp tongue; Erin says it's better than a sharp knife. She is a mother of three and just moved to the very bizarre state of Maine. Between her husband, her children, and the weirdness of Mainers, she has a lot of fodder. She can be reached at: imgonnakillhim@gmail.com.