Occasionally when my seven year-old and I are playing, I like to sneak around the corner and hide. When he comes looking for me I jump out and scare him. He screams, I scream and it’s fun.

Azul was reminiscing, telling a story about me, his sweet innocent loving mother, being scary (that’s really more like it). Using his advanced vocabulary he chose the most frightening word he could use. “Horror” was how he described me.

“Mommy, you’re a whore!” Of course my first instinct was a terror, did I really hear what I thought I heard, and then laughter, because really, denial never works.

I did like his word choice, so I countered as clearly as I could, emphasizing the two Rs.

“It’s hor-ror.”

“I know, whore.”

The horror story was in full-effect, both of us giggling through wide eyes. Azul doesn’t know why, so he repeats himself for being rewarded with laughter.

“Whore.”

“It’s horror.”

“I know! You’re a whore.”

Him scaring me was just as fun as me scaring him.