(Obligatory backstory digression: My boys are well-versed in the “no-touch” body parts, but they also have a very well-developed, expanded sense of personal space because their mother doesn’t think you have to go around groping genitals to be creepy. Any touch that makes them uncomfortable should be reported to their vicious, overly-caffeinated Mama Bear. For lack of anything more original, we call this their “space”.)

The rotten short kid and I ducked into the library to exchange the movies he’s watched 982 times in the last 3 days. The librarian and the children’s librarian had read a historical novel for a book club, and they were interested in my take on it. (I was the children’s librarian there before said rotten short kid was born, so they’re pretty familiar with my reading tastes.) So, she put a copy on the desk for me.

Rotten short kid: My mom won’t like that book. She only reads books with nakie people on them.

Librarian: Reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaally?

Rotten short kid: Well, sometimes they have clothes on, but they’re touching all over each other’s spaces.

*shaking head*

I keep my EC paperbacks up on a shelf, because I walked into the room a few months ago and found the tall kid and my husband both motionless and open-mouthed, transfixed by a Victoria’s Secret commercial. They looked like drooling bookends. Geez, he’s only 9.

But I’ve got Blazes and Temptations and Bravas–oh my!–laying around the house. Or maybe lying around the house. Laying…lying…scattered around the house. (That’s exactly how I do it in my manuscripts, too. Just find another word.)

I swear, I can’t take the rotten short kid anywhere.