Clearly she was sick, right? I was sure she'd be up puking at 3am but she actually just snuck in my bed around 4 and ground her teeth next to my ear until I stopped pretending to sleep. But she was chipper & ate so off to school she went.
Last night I picked her & The Boy up after work and headed to the store for a lovely rotisserie chicken & maybe some fancy foccacia or garlic sourdough. Maybe a bag o'salad. Did I mention Matt has been out of town again? Cooking during these times is a luxury my sanity cannot afford.
She was asleep in the back seat before we left the gas station. Are they making her run laps at school? What the hell? [It will surprise none of you that fatigue without other symptoms immediately set off a tsunami of alarms. The fact that I did not call the ped and immediately demand a blood draw yesterday is, I believe, a sign of my good mental health and maturity. Well... that and it was after hours.]
So in lieu of a happy organic chicken raised on love & hand fed oats, humanely slaughtered after a simple prayer to the great poultry god, & slow roasted over an open flame of sustainably harvested hardwood, we hit the KFC drive thru.
Oh, yes. We did. Because we'd had McD's the night before and nutritional variety is important.
But there are some things that will just never taste as good as they did when you were 6: bright orange mac & cheese, IHOP, ice cream drumsticks, and -turns out- KFC.
The Boy, however, is not yet legally at the age of reason and practically licked his plate.
Two hours later? Puke. From the "healthy" one.
You know what we're out of? Paper towels. At least he hit the toilet…. mostly.
Sadly for him, Matt had in the interim landed and made it back home - just in time to fetch a huge bowl and a trash bag. Welcome home!