Mr. Sammich and I are Android people, which means we have only passing experience with Siri. From what I can tell, she can be a real unhelpful bitch sometimes. In fact, after I spent one particular weekend listening to my mother argue with Siri about everything from search results to my mother’s tone of voice, I announced to my husband that there was no way in hell I had any interest in getting a phone with Siri capability whatsoever.

Until this past weekend.

Alister, 6, is my sweet little angel face, and I love him with all the lovies a mother can possibly posses for her child, but this doesn’t stop me from recognizing that he talks a lot. All the time. Without stopping. EVER.

I mean, he can’t even go under water while swimming yet because he keeps choking on and inhaling the water no matter how many times we try to teach him to keep his mouth and nose shut when he does it. He even announced in frustration after one particularly harrowing attempt to dunk his head that he’s “NOT USED TO KEEPING [HIS] MOUTH CLOSED!” and didn’t think he could do it to save his life.

It’s enough to drive a person fucking bonkers, this talking. I’m pretty sure even the lake water was trying its best to render the child speechless, if only for a millisecond.

This weekend was no exception, and by the time we finally made it to the family cottage after two and a half hours of uninterrupted kid blather, I seriously made a mental note to delay teaching Baby Sammich how to talk until he’s at least 4. At least. Because at this point, even my kid with the speech and language developmental delay is making me question whether I’m not actually in a government-sanctioned torture program whose primary method of psychological torment is the incessant talk talk TALKING of elementary and preschool-aged secret spy agents.

FOR FUCKING REALS.

I thought for sure I was destined to suffer through questions about whether or not everyone has a great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandmother in their family history or about what brand of TV my best friend’s cousin’s neighbor had when I was in fourth grade for the rest of my foreseeable future. That is, until my mom let Alister play with Siri on her cell phone for two days this past weekend.

And HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS, is Siri the best thing to happen to my sanity since Zoloft and Two Buck Chuck. We are totally getting one of those, and not a minute too soon, either.

Not only is she specifically designed to withstand hours of extensive interrogation, but even better, she’s also not me, which is just about the best fucking news I’ve received in weeks. This means Alister can happily retire to a corner of the couch or another room altogether and ask all the questions about which place on the map is simultaneously the closest and farthest place to which we can fly in an airplane that his sweet, innocent heart desires.

I just hope Siri doesn’t catch on to this little game and respond with, “Jesus Christ, kid, I don’t know alfuckingready. DON’T YOU HAVE ANY PARENTS YOU CAN RUN THIS SHIT BY?”

I have it on good authority and 48 hours of personal, anecdotal experience that Siri can be a real whore mouth, after all.