Ever Tell Stories Of Your Childhood And Then Someone Tells You Your Kids Will Be Just As Bad?

That terrifies me. I was an awful kid. As a barely literate five-year-old, I tried to maneuver my way out of a time-out in my bedroom by writing my father love notes. When he didn't respond favorably, I asked my mother how to spell murder. I wrote my dad a death threat, apparently.

I was visiting my brother and we were reminiscing about summers spent at a neighbor's house. My mother would make our lunches and send us across the street for the day while she worked. One day, my brother stole my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and all hell broke loose. I glared at him eating my sandwich from across the table. There were 5 or 6 other kids present. Our poor neighbor! She was setting the table with plates, cups, bread and napkins and I waited until she finished before making a wide swoop with my arm and tossing everything onto the floor. If I wasn't getting my sandwich, nobody was eating. I did it two more times before the other kids grabbed their sandwiches and moved away from the table.

Actually, my brother and I were both terrible. When he was 12, he was an accomplice to a bomb threat called into a Friendly's restaurant. If that happened today, he'd probably be at Guantanamo right now.

I'm concerned I'll give birth to a demon spawn.