He's my kid. I have proof.

Have you ever seen a frustrated mother in the grocery store? The kid in her cart is grabbing at candy bars and throwing out the whole-grain linguine while screaming at the top of his lungs and stuffing his face with a cookie all at the same time.

Inveritably, you'll hear the mother exclaim "YOU'RE NOT MY CHILD!"

I can never do that. Not in good conscience, anyways. Because there is never any doubt that I mothered this child.

Take last week. In the middle of a family gathering, Mr. Cheeto-face climbs up to the counter, snags a bag of Cheesypoofs, and proceeds to bring them back to the living room.Where he houses what is left of the bag.

Yup, he's my kid all right.