The wearing of the white

Oma has been visiting for a few days, and while I was hard at work on Friday, she took her other daughter and two smallest grandsons (Four and Five) to a place I used to call Schmapters, but now just call Chapters. The great Canadian bookstore chain comes paired with Starbucks (which I used to call... oh never mind), a place of infinite coffee variety and little round tables at which you may not read any unpurchased reading material.

Four and Five have the routine down pat: sit at a little round table at Starbucks where they each drink a kid-sized hot chocolate, move their chair as often as possible, bumping into as many other tables as possible, also talking to as many strangers about Bat Man pyjamas as possible.  By the time they're done, they've licked off the icing of their pumpkin scone, scattered crumbs everywhere, and caused the accompanying adult's coiffure to come undone with the added bonus of causing said adult to not be able to really enjoy their grande half-fat no-whip, decaf steamed caramel macchiato.

On this particular occasion, Five was sitting across the table from his mom, Mama Nut.  Mama was wearing Daddy Nut's white shirt, and yes, that's an important detail.

All seemed to be going well, until out of the blue Five was stricken with a coughing attack.  His mouth happened to be full of hot chocolate at the time.  The flying beverage did not land anywhere on the table, thank goodness.  Where it did land, however, was all over Mama's borrowed white sweater, which in three seconds looked as if she'd been sniped by the brown paint ball team.

Some days you just shouldn't wear white.