This evening the kids were being scallywags after bedtime. By that I mean laughing and occasionally yelping, their hearts full of wild abandon.
Which was getting in the way of me watching Coronation Street and Riverdale. So I had a problem with that, but I channeled the Dali Lama and didn’t go in and blow a gasket.
Finally—unsurprisingly—one of them began creeping around outside their room, so I yelled “Get back to bed!”, which is just another thing I do exactly like my parents before me. Finn cleared his throat, and in the most faux-feeble voice croaked “Daddy...I feel sick.”
To which I said, “It’s because you’ve been laughing too much with your sister—go to bed!” Finn yelled his response: “You don’t even care about your son!” And went back to bed.
About five minutes later he sent his emissary, Peapod, to come and plead his case to me: “Finn’s tooth is sore”.
“First his belly, now his tooth? He’s going to keep finding sore things to avoid going to bed!”
Peapod quietly added, “His foot’s sore too”.