And I was sweating—again.
The DoorDash guy was probably going to call the cops and report me to child services.
“Chicken nuggets are alive!” she squealed. “With a chicken press!” The drama that followed as she threw her little body against mine was Academy Award–worthy.
I caught her so she wouldn’t fall off the counter and held her tight, stupidly assuming that holding her would make her stop screaming when it only made it worse.
“HA HA!” Ben pointed. “You’re growing chickens in your tummy, you’re growing chickens in your tummy!”
“AM NOT!” she yelled, and then she stopped crying enough to look up at me with bright-blue eyes. “Am I growing chickens?”
Another quiver of her lower lip.
And then a knock on the door.
There is a God.
“Look! It’s food, and you can have fries. I’ll eat the nuggets, or your brother, who was just teasing.” I shot him my best grown-up-in-charge glare and must have had it down well because his shoulders slumped as he kicked the chair in front of him and crossed his arms. “Right, Ben?”
“Maybe.” Then he smirked up at us and put a hand on the top of his head and started doing the rooster dance. “Ca-ca, ca-ca, ca-ca—” His little feet skipped against the still-dirty floor.
Viera burst into tears again.
Just then the front door flew open. Rip held the McDonald’s paper bag away from his body as if so repelled by the fast food that he didn’t want it near his person or—God forbid—touching his skin. “Who the hell ordered McDonald’s?”
Both kids pointed at me.
Ben spoke first. “Viera’s growing a chicken.”
Viera’s voice was hoarse from screaming. “Chicken nuggets are alive!”
Rip gave me a what-the-hell look.
How to even begin to explain the escalation from DoorDash to this moment? I mean really?
I’d forgotten that I still had all our arts-and-crafts stuff out, which meant there were finger paint and wet pictures all over the table.
Dishes were piled high in the sink.
I followed his narrowed eyes to the milk that had spilled out of this morning’s cereal bowls and that still sat in a tidy little puddle on the kitchen floor.
“Did you even… shower?” Rip asked in a tone that made it sound a lot like Is that dog shit on your shoe?
I hissed out a breath. I didn’t need his judgment. I knew what I looked like.
I was wearing the pair of sweats I’d grabbed from the floor while Viera was having her first of many freak-outs that morning. Did he even comprehend the herculean effort it took to make sure she was happy while putting on pants? Did he?
It was why moms wore leggings!
Nobody had time for real pants.
My white tank top had finger paint smeared on it, and my hair, which had seen better days, was currently in a messy bun on my head.
I could only assume it too had flecks of pink paint in it and possibly Fruit Loops.
Yay.
“No,” I snapped. “Because keeping Viera alive seemed like the better grown-up decision!”