"I'm glad you feel that way," said I, "would that you always love to clean the kitchen."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because," I said, "someday you'll wake up and you'll have to do it and you'll start whining, just like you do when you have to clean your room."
"Na-huh" she said, "I'm always going to like it."
"Ok, I'll remind you in a few weeks that you said that."
Meanwhile, her brothers were lying on the floor picking up one tiny cheerio at a time moaning and moaning, "I'm so tired! Picking up cheerios is so hard. I need to eat a lot of food. Can I have a Popsicle?"
At the same time Gladys was raging around telling everybody what to do, "Clean up!" she shouted, "Mooooooooommy, Womulus isn't cweaning up!"
She anticipated the baby needing a change and brought me a diaper, wipes and a plastic bag. "I'll change her," she bellowed condescendingly.
"No you won't," I said, "but thank you for the diaper." She took the wipes out and handed them to me one by one. I felt vaguely managed and therefore rebellious.
"I can get wipes out myself."
"No," she said, "I'll do it." She's like a tiny Attila the Hun, ready to conquer the household if we don't beat her off. Later she came in with a page full of addition sums and a pen. "Now I will do my maffff, "she shouted.
"Whatever," I said.