Three into two won't go. When all three boys attempt to board the minivan, the usual grab for the two seats in the middle row leads to the usual argument over dirty work at the crossroads. Daddy attempts to resolve the dispute fairly, but when anyone gets impatient and forgets that hands are not for hitting, house (and car) rules dictate that the offending party is sent to the back seat, irrespective of his merits in the earlier case.
This time it's Tertius who stomps through the gap between his brothers, pronouncing one of them -- I forget which -- a "fat feeney."
"What's a feeney?" asks Secundus.
"It's his word," Primus explains. "He made it up, because he doesn't know any others."
"I do," protests Tertius from the rear. "I know the b-word and the f-word and the c-word . . ."
"There isn't a c-word!" retorts Primus impatiently.
Er, no. And let's leave it that way. (I thought this stuff was supposed to flow from the oldest to the youngest, not the other way round.)