One Small Word

By 6:15, you've fed the little darlings, and are staring at the mushy Wheatabix sloshed onto the kitchen counter. You know that by the time you finish the coffee that restores your sanity, said cereal will have solidifed into a mass the consistency of fibre-laced concrete. But the sandblasting can wait...Coffee first.

With disbelief and horror you realize Jack has already moved to his favourite pastime, trying to beat his latest score on Guitar Hero, volume turned up to decibel levels you recall from AC/DC concerts when you were young enough to handle that racket.

Simultaneously, Sophie drags her little karaoke machine down the stairs and, trying to drown out Jack's heavy metal guitar riffs, she sings at the top of her lungs. A song you *think* might be Somewhere Over the Rainbow...her inability to read yet makes for some interesting lyrics, and her ear-piercing high-pitched little girl voice has you heading to the medicine cabinet for your morning dose of Tylenol.

Working on your second cup, you rinse the cereal bowls, and chip away at the hardened Wheatabix on the counter with a spackle knife reserved solely for this purpose, noticing the pattern of scratches and gouges that have been etched after similar breakfasts past.

You head upstairs, figuring the kids are busy enough for you to slip into a quick shower - three-and-a-half minutes being your record so far.

Apparently the extra thirty seconds you spent sighing "why me?" under scalding hot water was enough time for them to have finished their early morning musical efforts, and when you return downstairs, you discover they have decided to "make pancakes."

Jack, two years older than Sophie, has her convinced not only that he knows what he's doing, but also that it's high time she learned too. You watch in disbelief as he "supervises"

Sophie beats eggs in a bowl, shells and all, while he pours flour into the bowl...and all over the counter and floor. Next comes the milk, sloshed into the mix, dripping off the counter.

You look down and catch a glimpse of a bouncing, tail-wagging ghost you realize is your Jack Russel terrier, enthusiastically lapping up the dregs of your children's culinary experiment. Covered in flour, and now soggy with milk, you realize that if you don't stop them, they will have papier-mached the dog!

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?" you shout.

Startled, Sophie, whisk in hand, whirls around, eggs, shells, flour and milk flying onto the floor, the dog, and the counter you *just* finished sandblasting. As Sophie's lip starts to tremble, Jack stammers for a moment. You look at the clock on the stove, which reads 6:45am, just as your son utters the words you thought would wait AT least until lunchtime....

"We were BORED."

The End

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