The problem with trying to do work at home is that all your coworkers are insane.
It all started as I sat here and edited Bitter Moon II. I was actually enjoying myself, and I looked up and saw that the Cave Troll had no pants of any kind. There he was, bum-winkie-nekkid, yelling at me about his hot-pocket being too hot.
I told him for Sweet Triane’s sake, go get some damned pants on.
He ran away–I don’t know why I assumed he was going to comply.
A few minutes later, Ladybug was looking for him and I went to make sure that, you know, he was no longer bumwinkienekkid, and I found him. In our bed. Bumwinkienekkid. Giving himself a, well, small favor, as it were.
I screamed and threw some pants at him and stalked in here to pretend I had never given birth, but alas, the illusion was short lived.
It seemed that while he was giving himself a favor, his little sister was giving his dinner to his big brother.
Now, Big T has never been the sort of kid to look at a gift hot-pocket not going into his mouth, as it were, but Ladybug can be quite persistent when she wants you to eat, so I didn’t hold it against him.
The Cave Troll did. The Cave Troll yelled and writhed on the kitchen floor (thankfully clothed by this time) and screamed and screamed and Chicken came in to see what all the shouting was about. When she heard about the last hot-pocket, she turned to her little sister and admonished, “Bad, Ladybug, baaaaad!!!”
Ladybug was unrepentant. She stood, one hand on a cocked hip, one hand holding a tiny plate with the last bite of hot pocket in the entire house. “I’m not bad!!!” she said smugly. Then the little shit shoved the last of the hot pocket in her mouth and aimed her full cheeks at her despondent brother. “MMMMMMmmmmmm… goooooooood hot pocket…” she garbled.
I put my face in my hands and laughed maniacally and for a moment, a sweet, sweet moment, pretended this moment in motherhood was fiction…