Like most Americans, I’m used to giving up some of my privacy. That’s the price you pay when you’re the Lone Vagina surrounded by Peckers. My house is permeated with the smell of stinky feet and littered with marbles, hickory nuts and boxer briefs. There are boys running everywhere, and only my bathroom is sacred ground.
Generally the boys are busy playing outside after school: climbing trees, riding bikes, setting up obstacle courses. I can prep dinner in the kitchen in relative peace, unless it rains.
So you can imagine my surprise when I was putting some of Porter’s spent shotgun shell collection into his room and discovered some disturbing papers. I thumbed through them in astonishment. Apparently Porter has been masquerading as a hungry eight-year-old, but is really a well-trained spy who accomplishes his investigative assignments with ruthless thoroughness.
This appeared to be one of his first assignments:
After some study, I was able to break the code: “Mission is to see what time it [is] without being seen. 2:08 Mission done.”
That wasn’t so bad. Porter could have accomplished that in his room simply by looking at his clock. Then I saw his next file:
“No sign of Mommy.”
Well, that was unsettling. What was the kid doing sneaking around the house looking for me? Who needed to know my whereabouts? What if I was shaving my legs, or trying on bras? Would he have reported that to someone?
Bill was easier for Porter to locate, and he immediately advised his superiors:
“My dad is loading the dishes.”
Was Porter’s boss a member of the older generation, who’d never believe that a husband would be loading the dishwasher? Would he think that Porter was a double-agent? Would they torture Porter to find out? The more I read, the more anxious I became.
Apparently Porter was instructed to continue tracking my movements, because this was the last entry I found:
“Mommy is cracking a egg.”
I’ve cracked eggs almost every day the last week. Was this a euphemism for some other activity, like forcing Porter to wash his hair?
I like to keep a close eye on all my boys, but I’ve been watching Porter especially attentively since this discovery. I bet he has a hidey-hole in the front yard where he deposits his reports. Maybe that man who walks his dogs every morning while he smokes a cigar is not a suburban neighbor, but a government agent collecting information on our family.
One answer remained unsolved– how did the feds convince Porter to spy for them and write up such detailed reports? This morning I carefully examined his room again. Something about his sock drawer seemed amiss:
I threw all the socks on the floor, and found the secret to Porter’s cooperation:
He is being paid in candy, primarily in exotically colored M & Ms.
My plan is to cook Porter’s favorite dinner for him tonight, follow that with some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and then snuggle with him and get him to confess everything. The feds are no match for a mother.