‘Is papá coming with us?’ asks Pest n.1 whilst I tuck his t-shirt in, just before bolting out of the door. We are late already.

‘No, sweetie. It’s just the three of us’, I answer, absent-mindedly.

‘Oh good. That means that you are not arguing and he is not saying the ‘F’ word.’

‘We don’t argue that much!’ I cannot believe I heard what I heard.

‘Oh yes you do.’ He is not upset, or smirking. He does not look bothered. It’s a matter-of-fact observation.

‘All right. Maybe we argue in the car. You know, about driving and directions.’

‘No you don’t. You argue in the house too. You argue in the landing, in the kitchen, in your bedroom, in my bedroom…’

‘Yes, ok. I got the message. We raise our voices. That does not mean we are arguing. You know I am loud.’

‘No. You argue. That’s why he says the ‘F’ word.’

I give up. Pest n.1 has even been polite enough not to mention the ‘F’ word in its entirety. I briefly ponder over whether I should praise him for just saying “the ‘F’ word”, or tell him off for even using the euphemism.

‘But he lets us play whilst you make us do the homework, so I think he is right.’

I push him and his brother out of the door, and slam it shut. Mr Husband is still in there, watching the Olympics. Play, eh?