Heptadecagon

"Toothpaste belongs on the brush," I tell my children in an earnest voice. I hold up a sample toothbrush, the sort someone received from the dentist ages ago. The bristles stand tall and the plastic is smooth in my hand. A perfect example of a toothbrush. I go through the motions--all of them--slowly. Opening the cap of the toothpaste, squeezing it onto the brush, and then replacing the cap. "The tube goes back into the cabinet." My voice is monotone to my own ears and I'm sure my expression holds nothing but boredom in it. "You brush, then rinse, then replace your brush back into the cabinet. If follow those steps," I pause and look at the four beasts in front of me, "you get clean teeth and you don't get toothpaste on the walls. Got it?" The twins roll their eyes and move back toward their chairs, where their books wait for them. Aaron looks at me with a protest on his lips, but knows better than to even try. He shakes his head and ...