The scene this evening was a grumpy mom trying to feed a couple grumpy (read: picky) toddlers dinner. After getting them to successfully eat a filling dinner of three cantaloupe pieces and a handful of frozen peas, I went about disposing of the discarded quesadillas, sweet potatoes, black beans, chicken nuggets, pretzels and taco meat. If we could have a futuristic dumbwaiter teletransport system, I'm sure my boys alone could feed a third world country with their discards.
After dinner, they then turned on the whining and crying mode. Why? Who knows. The wind was blowing NE. Maybe that was it.
And at the height of my frustration as I went to execute my good ol' standby plan of walking into the master bedroom closet and screaming into a pillow to release the bad juju vibes, Edith Piaf's voice saunters over the speakers, indicating this is la vie en rose. And that, my friends, is what we call irony. I can always appreciate a nice dose of perfect timing. I still screamed into the pillow, but not without letting a little exasperated laugh escape my lips first.
1 comment:
I feel ya, friend.
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