In his wisdom, Grumpy Pants pulled out my anatomy book from uni in an attempt to diagnose Monkey Boy.
Funnily enough, he couldn’t find slap cheek in it.
With an early, higher temperature, the redness of cheek dissipated. In line with his levels of cheekiness and obnoxiousness. A few woozy moments where I was extremely concerned about him.
The additional children were collected by tonight’s carer and the house quietened. Very slightly.
The Annoying of the Younger Brother started up almost immediatley, the demands for snacks and blatant disregard for my requests for him to do things, or not do things, kicked in.
Worse, feeling well enough to bounce on couches and run up hallways and answer back at every opportunity, he insisted he was “very sick” and couldn’t do things like feed cats or unstack dishwashers or stop being an insufferable little poo.
He’d had a taste for the waited on life and wasn’t ready to give it up.
Grumpy and I looked at each other, in an attempt, I think, to warn each other off what we were both very, very tempted to do.
If it wasn’t a case of Slap Cheek yesterday, it was seriously about to become one. But not becuase of any virus doing the rounds.