Sit down to a much anticipated dinner of pecan crusted fish, asparagus and white wine. Prepare to take a bite, but then receive a surprise blow to the face from a Nerf sword wielded by three-year-old. Exercise superhuman rage containment. Step out of room and intentionally break the Goddamn sword. Try to throw it in the automatic trash can. Wave hand over lid to open it. Wait. The lid does not open. Wave hand over lid again. Wait. Nothing. Express hate for trash can. Open back door and throw f**king sword outside. Return to room and calmly place three-year-old in timeout. Endure his wailing with taciturn indifference. Endure the sympathetic tears of his sisters with the same indifference. Rebuff the advocacy of each of his siblings in turn. Rebuff the unexpected advocacy of your wife, but with somewhat less confidence. Explain to five-year-old that your youngest son will in fact not starve to death. Explain to eleven-year-old that you’re in charge and she needs to freaking sit down and stop trying to comfort that little – ahem – angelic child that just hit you in the face. Take bite of coveted fish, but find that the wailing and gnashing of teeth interferes with your ability to savor it. Sigh loudly. Remove child from timeout. Deliver lecture worthy of Clarence Darrow about hitting people – especially in the face – and especially as they’re raising a fork full of awesome freaking fish to their mouth. Accept earnest apology of three-year-old. Advocate on your own behalf to still smoldering five-year-old. Experience several hugs and deliver many pats on various backs. Sit down – finally – to savor the fish . . . which is now f**king cold. Of course.