It's been one of those long afternoons. The kids are on each others' nerves, but somehow, no matter how many times I split them up, they keep ending up in the same room, usually in a dog pile. It's the noise that gets me in the witching hour. One decibel over a certain threshold and I lose it. (Don't even ask me how I felt yesterday when I suspected a secret poop had taken place courtesy of Lucas. I opened the door to reveal the nasty truth...at the same time as the door spread the offending [soft] turd across the ENTIRE floor...grrr)
We are all kicking around our little townhouse, all a bit on edge. I hear Lukey in the fridge and something crashes out onto the floor. My teeth clench. I don't think I can hear him close the door. What the...? He trots in the room with a yogurt and starts to open it on the carpet. C'MON! I grab it out of his hands and walk back to the kitchen where all the stuff that fell out of the fridge is on the floor, with the fridge open. I launch into lecture mode: "Lucas, you cannot...blah, blah, blah...plus, you didn't even ask if you could have yogurt and we're about to have dinner." He looks at me (with some disdain) and says, "Can I have a yogurt?" Blood pressure rises. I spit out, "You are missing the most important word in that question, Lucas!"
"Oh, okay. Can I have a yogurt...package?"
I laughed. Things have been pretty good since then.