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Last night for our house was Superbowl Night – or, as my kids see, it, the One Night A Year They Get To Watch Commercials.

Some of them.

Yes, we still record the game and watch it live so we can pause and skip commercials. Do I think they’ve never heard of bad guys and fires and serial killers?

I hope not. But even if they have, I’m not going to sear more images in their brains. I already get enough late-night nightmare-induced visits to my room as it is.

And don’t even get me started on what my girls must think of men (stupid, good-natured, easily cajoled with a lite beer) or women (think: boobies and vacant smiles) based on those commercials.

All I can say is, thank you, Bruno Mars, for having a classy half-time show. I know the Red-Hot Chili Peppers weren’t your fault.

Or as Maddie said when watching those shirtless men make fools of themselves, “What in the world are they doing? I’d be so embarrassed if someone told me I had to get onstage and move around like that.”

To which I replied: “Honey, no one told them to do that; they do that by choice.”

To which Maddie screeched: “WHAT? They do that ON PURPOSE?”

My thoughts exactly.