Marcus pipes up with, "I can't wait until I mate."
"What?"
"I. Can't. Wait. Until. I'm. Eight."
"Oh. Okay."
Marcus pipes up with, "I can't wait until I mate."
"What?"
"I. Can't. Wait. Until. I'm. Eight."
"Oh. Okay."

My older younger sister is wicked and evil. I have great hopes for smiting her come Christmas.
Rebecca is quite taken with the facehugger. Really. Hug it and squeeze it and call it George, indeed.
Lately, I've taken to having a Stonyfield Farm Vanilla Truffle yogurt for breakfast with a piece of fruit. However, I am particularly possessive of my yogurt, as I'm not really big on breakfast and finding something acceptable is difficult. If the kids ever tasted it, I would no longer have any breakfasts left in the fridge.
"Mom, why is your yogurt brown? Is it chocolate?"
"No, it is truffle-flavored."
"Like on Iron Chef? The mushrooms?"
"Yes, exactly."
I am a horrible mother.

As we've been cleaning out the office, Marcus and Rebecca have been kept busy disassembling old electronic hardware that no longer works.
Rebecca's favorite piece is the phone, on which she has been constantly chatting with Frodo, her imaginary friend. Marcus is altogether too fond of solenoids, I'm afraid.