In the 45 seconds it takes to put the kitchen trash outside and get back to the cabinet with a new bag, somebody has deposited an empty silver Pop Tart wrapper, with enough crumbs left inside to leave a small spray of sugary gravel underneath.
In the living room, Boy, Esq. is sprawled across the chair, two unwrapped Pop Tarts on his lap.
(Yes, I know, Pop Tarts. Bad Mommy. But this isn't about that. Can we please just focus?)
"Did you throw your wrapper under the sink?" I ask.
"She had Pop Tarts too," he says. The non-denial denial.
"Whose wrapper is under the sink?" I say.
"I threw mine away," he parries.
"Under the sink?" I say. "There is no bag under the sink so you decide to scatter your trash where the bag should be?"
"No," he says.
"Where is your wrapper?" I ask.
"I threw it out."
"In the bathroom. Or outside."
And there it is. His final answer. It is not even a good lie.
Later, she and I are playing a game of Sorry. She is red, because she always gets to pick her color first. Plus she goes first. Plus she shuffles the cards. Even so, I have two green pieces way out in front and she is stuck at start, waiting to draw a card that lets her move out.
She is tired of waiting. She draws a 10 and begins to move her piece.
"I think you can only get out with a one or a two," I say.
"Well there is a 1 in 10," she says.
"I don't think that is what they mean," I say. "Give me the box and I will read the rules."
"Fine, " she says, handing me the box lid. "We'll start over."
"We don't have to start over," I say. "Just give me a minute to read this."
But she has already swept my pieces off the board.
Photo: How Sorry Must My Parenting Skills Be?