This story originally appeared in the Uinta County Herald in April, 2012. It is reprinted here by popular demand. I hope you enjoy it.

The thing about humanity is this: we tend to learn from the mistakes of those who have gone before us, and we alter our behavior accordingly. To that end, I offer the following cautionary tale, regarding the dangers of the seemingly innocuous carrot. Learn from my example, and live a long and healthy life.

If you happen to order vegetables from Bountiful Baskets, and if you happen to purchase the 25-pound bag of carrots, pay special attention. If you are like most people, and you buy regular carrots from the grocery, you can still learn, so don’t stop reading yet.

If you begin to eat a carrot, and one of your children tells you a joke, DO NOT LAUGH.

This is imperative, and the first rule of surviving the dangers of carrots. If you never laugh, you can still learn a thing or two, so please, continue reading.

If you do begin to laugh, and you inhale a huge chunk of carrot into your windpipe, it could be dangerous. You might end up at the hospital on the last Saturday of spring break, and find that the surgeon who could remove the carrot from your windpipe is still at Disney World.

If the surgeon is not available, you might find yourself on a Life Flight to Utah, to have a carrot removed from your windpipe. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but apparently, if you ask to go home, or you drive yourself to Utah, and you need to be intubated, you could potentially not make it to the hospital in a timely manner. Apparently, they can intubate a person choking on a carrot, if the need arises, on Life Flight.

When you finally make it to a large hospital, the admitting doctor might tell you to try to choke it up, which you could have been trying to do for the preceding three hours. You might sarcastically say that you hadn’t yet thought to choke it up, and thank him for the great, albeit expensive advice.

You then ask to be hung from the ceiling and beaten, which reasonably sounds like a way to dislodge a stuck piece of food from the windpipe, especially if you have been choking and pounding on your own chest for several hours. If you suggest that, the doctor might laugh. You can also ask to be punched hard in the stomach, but you probably won’t find a hospital volunteer willing to perform the procedure. At least, I didn’t. You could ask your worried spouse to pound on your back, while you hang down over the bed, but be warned that it could cause the carrot to move deeper, which is extremely painful. 

Eventually, a bronchial specialist could explain that the carrot is wedged in your lungs, and needs to be removed endoscopically, or you risk infection, pneumonia or death. 

So, you choose to have a bronchiotomy, during which you are fitted with a dental guard, which strangely resembles something worn by Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. And although you have been cracking jokes and choking for nearly four hours, it is virtually impossible to speak past the dental guard, and it might feel like a medical conspiracy intended to silence you. It is just a safety precaution to prevent you from biting down on the expensive medical equipment. 

And then, the nurse might prep you with some noxious gas that renders you quite sleepy, and unable to keep up the witty repartee of the last hours, but still cognizant of the doctors talking in the room, as they send a scope into your lungs, in search of the erstwhile carrot. 

And suddenly, you will awaken, and they will show you a large chunk of carrot pulled from your right brachial tube. And they will explain that if they had not removed it, you may have died, or become severely infected. 

And that is why you should always slice your carrots into thin strips before eating, and you should never let your children tell you jokes, especially while eating carrots. Believe me, it happened to me, it could happen to you. And that is why I have banned all laughing from our house.

Namaste, friends.

I had the pleasure of driving halfway across the country with four of my eight children recently, and I literally had a blast.

Actually, nothing blew up. It wasn’t literal at all. But that phrase was over used and misused by most of the occupants of the vehicle. Until we arrived at my older daughter’s home in Seattle, at which point, she set her siblings straight on their improper use of the word literal.

As with many popular phrases, I have been able to block out my children’s misapplication of the word “literally.” For me, it joins other popular and misused slang words such as “like” as in; “I was like, and he was like and it was like…” and “you know”. My daughter finally stopped saying, “you know” when I continually responded with, “Actually, I do know.”

So the phrase literally has been abused in our household. It has literally been misused every day.

That is, until we arrived in Seattle. Older daughter number two began sharing a story of riding an elephant while on a mission trip in Thailand, “I was so scared, I literally had a heart attack.”

Older daughter number one, “I literally doubt you know how to correctly use that word.”

Number two, “No. I was literally scared to death.”

Number one, “No. You weren’t literally scared to death, because you are still alive. You literally do not know how to use that word correctly.”

And so it went on, the two of them literally arguing for the better part of a day, over the proper application of the word ‘literally.’

The teenaged daughters got in on the act, inadvertently, by using their everyday speech.

“This water is so cold, we could literally do the ice bucket challenge.”

“I literally almost drowned.”

They were corrected by their older sister at every turn, yet remained undaunted in their speech.

Curiosity finally got the better of me and I looked up the exact definition of literally.  I literally Googled it.

One of the definitions says, “True to fact; not exaggerated; actual or factual.”

I think my kids have never been literal in their lives. Their speech is peppered with exaggeration, falsity and imagination. I could be grateful for their rich story telling capacity, but usually I find myself frustrated, not knowing whether they are telling me the truth, or exaggerating for the sake of the story.

I hate to admit it, but I have been called, by more than one of my very own children, gullible. That’s not to say I believe every story they conjure, but I do give people the benefit of the doubt, even when it is my own kids.

For many years, I naively believed that my own children would never lie to me. That is, until I caught a teenaged daughter in a bold-faced lie. I was shocked that she would ever lie, especially to me. That was eight kids ago, and although I like to believe I am no longer so naïve, my children literally prove me wrong. The master of story telling is my youngest daughter. She is the seventh of eight children. One might think that by now, I don’t believe a word that comes out of any of their mouths, but I still believe in the basic goodness of humanity. And kids are literally human.

But Lexi has a way with words. She can weave a tale, as cunning as an Indian snake charmer. More often than not, I find myself listening intently, reeled in by the story, until she laughs and says, “I was only kidding, mom.” Drat. Fooled again. The first time it happened, she was a mere kindergartner, with a story about riding horses and catching fish during recess. I looked at her, wide-eyed and amazed that the school would offer such a great thing as pony rides and fishing during recess. It’s the first time I remember hearing that lyrical laugh, followed by the words, “Mom, I was just kidding.”

Samantha has literally posted a sticky note over my writing chair, which says, “Gullible Zone.”

Talk about disrespectful. I think my kids literally laugh at me. I know I hear inexplicable laughter coming from them at odd moments, but I like to think they are laughing with me, not at me.

Needless to say, once we left Seattle and hit the road to Evanston, the word literally reappeared in the vernacular.

“Chik-fil-et literally has the best chicken in the world. Can we have lunch? I’m literally starving.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes to the heavens, and literally said a prayer of thanks that we were nearly home.

And no. I don’t believe any of my children literally starved.

Namaste, friends