Technically, I write for a living, but I spend a heck of a lot more time in the kitchen than anywhere else. All those cookies to bake, you know. Smack my children with a spatula? It would never reach. I'd need a broom. They're all much taller than I am. And faster, too. No, I rely on my patented mom glare. Stops them in their tracks every time, as they whimper, "Not the look, not the look!"
I must admit to having scarred my children for life, though. When my boys were about ten years old, they came to me asking about the whole "where do babies come from" thing. I gave them the speech, after which they expressed their confusion over the logistics of such a thing. So I grabbed a couple of nearby teddy bears to demonstrate the traditional position. This was met with cries of "Oooooooh, gross, mom! Geez, I'll never be able to look at my old teddy bear again!" Soon after, they removed said teddy bears out of their room and into storage, and they now shudder every time they see one in a store. I have apparently ruined teddy bears for life.
