Tonight's dinner special: whole wheat French toast sticks, turkey bacon, and sliced apples. I don't know which is better, having breakfast for dinner or shamelessly palming turkey bacon to my two-year old while waiting for the toaster oven to ding. The apples were just to relieve any lingering guilt. She never glanced twice at them and ate her weight in pork-product-esque fried turkey bits, but now I can sleep soundly for having at least tried.
I think it's a state law somewhere that when you burn a portion of dinner you are required to give the non-burny parts to the children. Even if she never touched her French toast sticks, Grace did have the most evenly toasted of the batch. One point for mom for caring.
There are much better things I could have fed the kids tonight, but there are also much worse things out there too. Frankly I don't give a shit. My actions are subconsciously driven to maintain my sanity at all times. You can look it up, it's in the "I am a decent mother, dammit" handbook. By the end of the night, we're all fed, no one's bleeding, and I've still got my wits about me. Let's call this a win.
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