To say that I’m horrified is the understatement of the century

I

pause while sorting the laundry in the guest room — the better to listen in to a conversation taking place in my kids’ bedroom.

“No, I’ll show you how to do it. That’s not how to be a mechabel!” my eight-year-old Yael tells my five-year-old Aron. There’s some scuffling and then Yaeli says, “Here’s the mechabel!”

I abandon the washing pile and sneak closer to the bedroom door. Why are the kids playing “terrorists?”

“Here’s the mechabel. Look, you can be one, too!” A quick peek into the kids’ room shows Yaeli tying a pair of pajama trousers over her own head and Aron’s so that only their eyes are visible.

“Now here come the mechablim. First we take away the mommy, she’s screaming and crying. Look—” Yaeli mimics a crying noise. “And look, she has, like, a million kids, now we’re going to get the kids. Kids, kids, stop crying, here’s some candies. They’re from your mommy.” Then she turns to Aron and stage-whispers, “They’re not kosher. We gave them not-kosher candies. And they don’t know! MWAHAHAHA!”

Both Yaeli and Aron fall over, shrieking with mock-evil laughter.

To say that I’m horrified is the understatement of the century.