I am sitting at a minuscule lunch table with my daughter, noshing on a chicken leg. We are celebrating the birth of Christ with M&Ms and a cheese ball, just the way I like. Emma has a big smile on her face. She’s sitting across from me and next to her best friend, Callie. I’ve just finished with Addie’s party and am now enjoying Emma’s. I’m also secretly wondering if the teachers have to use illegal stimulants to keep up with these kids. For real.
Anyways, I am looking around at all the smiling faces. The kids who are soon going to be let out for Christmas holidays, the teachers who are probably secretly shouting for joy on the inside that they are done for the year. I’m cracking up at the expressions of grandparents and family members who have never been around multiple children jacked up on red dye and high fructose corn syrup. They’re a little shell shocked.
I’m eating my tiny chicken leg watching my daughter talk about Junie B. Jones to her BFF, and I’m thinking a really deep thought…
Why don’t eggs taste anything like chicken?