Dexter.  It isn’t just a village in Michigan.  He isn’t just a cartoon with a laboratory.  Nor is he simply a serial killer.  Or a phone book.  Dexter is our son.  And in case no one has figured it out by now, yes, we knew my home town was Dexter, Michigan before we named him, and we were aware of the cartoon, but no, we were not aware of the serial killer HBO series.  These things happen.  Funny how nobody ever asks if Nicholas was named after Santa Claus, or the last Tsar of Imperial Russia.  Come to think of it, I think he was named after a Lawyer on a canceled television show, but I might be mistaken.

Regardless, point being that we love Dexter.  We accept him for who he is, and we’ll love him unconditionally.  Even if he does turn to a life of crime.  We might not like all of the choices he makes, but we respect his right to make them.  Even when it comes at the expense of Pixar characters.  A few weeks ago I came downstairs after putting the boys to bed.  Our bedtime routine involves naked time at around 7:30, putting on sleepers and brushing their teeth around 7:45, then reading stories, before going up to bed at 8:00pm.  Sometimes Dexter loses interest in the stories, climbs down from our lap, and goes to play with his kitchen.  Nicholas usually sits tight, especially if he’s on Mommy’s lap, or gets to hold the book.

Well like I said, I was coming back downstairs and picking up the debris of 2 year olds around the house, when I glanced at the stove, and noticed to my horror that Dexter had made some Buzz Lightyear Stew…

I hadn’t noticed when we were down there reading the stories, but when we came back down it was too late.

The burner was still on, and the pot was still boiling.  Buzz had obviously tried to escape, but hadn’t made it very far.  It’s such a terrible way for a space ranger to go.  And it wasn’t even the Evil Galactic Emperor Zerg who did him in, it was our Dexter.

Dex, we love you.  Please don’t cook us.