When I walk in the front door, Joanne, my loving wife, rushes to greet me after a hard day at work.

"Here," she says, handing Mikey to me. "Just in time."

Mike looks up at me and blows bubbles with his spit. He stinks to high heaven. The boy needs a change.

So I head upstairs and lay him out on the changing table and unbutton his pants and yank off his diaper and suddenly can't stop laughing.

"What?" Joanne yells from the bottom of the stairs. "What's funny?"

"I just remembered," I say. "Mike had rasin bread for breakfast."

There's a pause.

"Ew," she says. And then: "Dinner is going to be about half-an-hour late while I try to get that image out of my head."