"Okay, Mom," she sing-songs. Obviously I've desensitized them both to my I'm-getting-annoyed voice.
But as I'm about to walk away to go check on the other monster who's probably also not doing what he was supposed to be doing, she says, as she begins to squeeze the toothpaste tube with some obvious effort onto her toothbrush, "I saw on TV...there's this machine...thingy...that you attach somehow to your toothpaste...and it squeezes just the right amount onto your toothbrush every single time."
"Oh, yeah?" I say. "Why don't we just get you and your brother a personal butler while we're at it?"
"What's a personal butler?" she asks.
"Oh, it's just someone who spends their every waking moment doing every teensy weensy little thing you could ever possibly need before you even have to ask," I respond, a little less than amused.
"But Mom," she says, looking at me with those gorgeous brown eyes and that killer smile, "that's what you do."