Lady Needs a Chicken

I see you there in the parking lot, glancing over the rims of your sunglasses. You're judging me.
Because my child is screaming. And standing up in the cart. And stomping her feet. And thrashing about. Control your frickin' kids, you're thinking.
Well guess what?
I'M TRYING!!!

My husband is out of town and so I have to feed my kids. I'm lucky. He is usually in charge of food. I see you judging me again! But maybe I'm just a really great catch, okay? To be able to land a husband that loves to cook.
Anyway, this kid, the one whose face is blotchy from screaming so loudly, she's been up since four in the morning. Well, she woke up then and refused to go back to sleep. So I let her crawl in bed with me. You're doing that judging thing again. Anyway, she'd finally fallen back to sleep, and so had I, when her brother (the calm red-head in the bottom part of the cart) woke up at quarter to six and yelled for me to help him get out of bed with such ferocity that he woke us all up.

I made everyone a hot breakfast this morning. Breakfasts are my th-ang. And then I put on these running shorts so I couldn't talk myself out of exercise later. And I got out a recipe book of healthy and nutritious meals and I convinced my son he'd LOVE to try chicken stew and homemade biscuits if I made them.
Biscuits from scratch! Yeah, I'm THAT kind of a mom, thank you very much.
And I just need celery. And mushrooms. And chicken.

I invite you to walk a mile in these sandals before you pass judgment on me.
This lady with the child struggling in one arm, pushing a cart with the other, trying to steer through the cars in the parking lot at Walmart, the one chewing hard on the side of her cheek, this lady needs a chicken.