It's been an interesting morning.

Medium Fry--who had been in our bed when I went up to bed last night--bounced back into our bed about 7:30 this morning.  Not to worry, because Large Fry had been up and playing in our room (I do not know with what, nor do I want to know; she was probably rearranging my books again) before 7.

Small Fry bounced in around 7:45, as Hubby was getting Large Fry ready to go to school.

They started demanding to watch tv.  I put them off until after I'd had a chance for my morning constitutional and had gotten Large Fry some clean pants.  (I have plenty of clean laundry.  It's just not folded yet.  Or put away.)

I crawled back into bed with them and turned the tv on.  Rescue me, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

A bit later, Small Fry moseyed down the hall to the bathroom.  I made note of when the toilet flushed...and determined several minutes later that Something Was Up.

I appeared in the bathroom and Small Fry whipped around to look at me, guilt all over her face.  "I need to wash my hands," she said.

And that's when I noticed that the full mouthwash bottle--full not long ago when I was first in the bathroom--was now extremely empty.  And the lingering odor of minty freshness permeated the air around the sink.

Thankfully, Small Fry readily confessed that she had dumped the mouthwash.

I marched her down the hall to have her actually tell Hubby that she'd dumped his mouthwash.

"Uncle, I'm sowwy," she said, tears beginning to creep into her voice.

"For what?" I prompted.

"Fowr dumping...."

"Dumping what?"  Despite his sleepiness, I was pretty sure we had his attention now.

"Moufwash," Small Fry mumbled.

Hubby looked at me.

"Mouthwash," I supplied.

He looked back at Small Fry.  "MY blue mouthwash?!"

Small Fry reluctantly nodded.

"That's not yours!" Hubby nearly roared.  (This is a persistent issue with Small Fry, her desire to take things and use things and mess with things and pour things that are not hers to take, use, mess with or pour.)

I let him handle the discipline, while I returned to the bathroom for my own reasons and then came back to get dressed.

I had the twins pick out undies, undershirts (it's gotten cold here again...ick), and shirts.  Clean pants, of course, were downstairs.

It was an undertaking to get both of them to actually put their clothes on.  Medium Fry insisted on tattling on Small Fry at every possible turn (I think she even made a few turns up), to the point that I had to holler at her to please put on her undies and her pants.  For about the fifth time.

I got them cereal for breakfast, and decided that drinking a Pediasure after their cereal couldn't hurt.  Medium finished first, and so I opened it up and gave it to her.  Usually, the kids can drink from bottles like that without a problem (although they do get little handlebar mustaches from them).  Not today.

Medium came out into the living room where I was.  "I spee-yulled," she told me.

This was not a small spill.

Chocolate Pediasure was all over her right shoulder, arm, and had splashed down on the front of her shirt in numerous places.  Her white shirt.

Migraine salute.

"Go upstairs and get another shirt," I instructed.

Naturally, this meant "stand in the hallway and pluck at the shirt I'm wearing."

About the time I opened my mouth to tell her to go upstairs, she says, "I need--"

"Go. Upstairs. Get another shirt."

So now I have the dishwasher running (it tripped the circuit on the outlet last night, and stopped before it even hit the main wash cycle), the shirt soaking in the sink, and the twins arguing in the toy room because Small Fry is half-hula-ing and half dancing silly and she's knocked over Medium Fry's "lamp" (a conglomeration of the three big plastic teapots we have) at least twice.

And Keiki, my husband's cat, is over here, tapping me for attention, because I'm the one with the vent under my desk, spilling out hot air.  (She's our heater hog.)

This is the life.