matt's flight back into town was cancelled last night. this is the second time he's had a dallas-bound cancellation this week. so, shoot, since nothing compliments disappointment better than a big fat side of self-loathing, i thought i'd take the kids to chick-fil-a for dinner.
there's something about hauling your two small children to a fast food joint BY YOURSELF that really makes you feel like a piece of trash. at least when you do the drive-thru you maintain some anonymity: grab your gut-ache-in-a-bag and take it back to your den of iniquity. but getting your meal "to stay?"... fellow patrons quietly judging you as you shovel waffle fries down your kids' throats... "lady. go home and give those babies some vegetables. lemonade is not a fruit."
and what's really sick about the whole thing is that fox thinks this business of going inside to eat in the "dining room" is such a privilege. he showers me with hugs and innocent toddler elation when i tell him what i'm about to do to him. anguished sigh--i'm going straight to hell.
and this morning i decided to do taebo for the first time in coughayearcough since i could still feel that chicken sandwich chirping from the night before. and of course i round-house kicked indie in the face. of course i did. i turned around just in time to see her go sailing through the air and shriek in pain/total fear. tears ensued (and another round of self-loathing), but she walked away with only her tender little girl feelings maimed.