Five swats. A part of the subroutine considers how many muffins he'd tossed initially and weighs the benefit of adding the number to that five but- five. Enough for him to know she meant it, that it isn't an accident, that it sinks in how what he did was unacceptable. Five swats across his behind as was acceptable in the era of parenthood from which she is based-

And only when she's finished with the five does it sink in that she has raised a hand against one of her children.

The complicated tangle of emotions and conflicting processes flares behind her eyes for a moment before she shoves it back in favor of setting Five back on his feet, lips pressed thin, brows still lowered. The damp in his eyes hooks in deep- the urge to comfort near overwhelming, causing a warble to her previously stern voice. "You are going to clean up the cake and pavlova. Then you are going to your room."

She can't make him stay there- but cleaning up the mess he made? That's only fair. She...she has to change.