Connor makes a flying leap onto Scott. Instantly I'm behind the curve, trying to stop the bottles from falling from the pyramid, ineffectually touching them on the way down: "Connor! Cut it out! Get off him!" It doesn't help that Scott loves the attention, loves nothing more than an early morning 'rassle'. It also doesn't help my immediate goal of him getting up and dressed so we can leave for school.
"Connor! I'm getting angry! Get off!"
Connor pulls away, then yells and throws himself back on Scott: "He stuck his finger up my butt!!!"
"Well he banged his knee on my leg!"
"Get off him!"
Connor heads into the bathroom to put in his contact lenses. "I wouldn't have jumped on him if he hadn't stuck his finger up my butt."
"If you hadn't gotten your butt in position his finger wouldn't have been anywhere near it!...Scott, if you had your finger up his butt you need to wash your hands!"
And that, my friends, is nothing anyone should ever have to hear themselves say. Fifteen years ago I could not have conceived ever using that combination of words.
I wonder if people with daughters have ever had to say that. I feel like washing my own mouth out with soap.