That'll do it

“Fuckit.”

I heard it coming from the kitchen.

Well, not technically “the kitchen”, but from the mouth of the three year old who happened to be standing in the kitchen.

“Fuckit.”

“Fuckit.”

This time, it was followed by the almost-girly hysterical giggling of the 11 year old, home from school as he was sick. Oh, I mean “sick”.

At least he had the decency to be helpful and had stopped the littlest one from disturbing my writing time by making him a Milo.

Making a Milo for the littlest one consists of the biggest one dumping far too much Milo into a cup (“I said ONE teaspoon! That is technically a tablespoon!”) which he then takes away, eats with a teaspoon, comes back, requests more be added, then allows you to add milk.

The result? Milo all over face. Which is the

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