Meander into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Fill the cup. Turn. Talk to child in question. Turn back to cup and think: Surely I already added milk to that cup?
Remove cup from counter and return to desk.
Sip and wait.
“Hey! Who stole my coffee?!”
Stare at betraying cup on desk. Oh.
“Me. Um… sorry.” Take cup into kitchen. Find original filled vat sitting patiently on the other counter where I left it. With milk.
Contritely offer stolen cup to child, who won’t touch it because it’s been contaminated by milk. “No,” he says. “It’s yours now. Guess you’ll be drinking the whole pot alone.”
Both cups return with me to my desk, and I drain a mug hoping to find a brain, preferably mine, in the bottom.
The child mutters just loudly enough to be overheard, “Harley, did you see that? You’re my witness. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Harley: *wags tail*
Child: Mornings f*cking hate me.
(I would count this as a win except for the fact the brain is on haitus. I’ve blown my nose so much this morning that it’s taken up residence in the used tissue, because it’s freaking NOT in the bottom of either cup. I’ve searched.)