You take out the chicken.
Your kid has scraped her knees.
By the time you get to her she’s smeared her own blood on her cheeks like war paint…
And is standing on your corner triumphantly screaming, “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.”
Grab kid.
Apologize to neighbors.
Clean kid from tip to toe while explaining blood born pathogens.
Get back to chicken.
The landscaper knocks on the door and asks if it’s normal for your kid and her friends to dress in feather boas and church hats and scream, “We ARE ZE GOLDEN GIRLS!” to all passerby.
Of course that’s normal, you reply. That’s a Tuesday.
Your landscaper takes a second to process this information before informing you that it appears as though your dog ate 5 of your front lawn’s sprinkler heads.
Cool.
Add checking dog’s stool and possible vet visit to your list.
Landscaper side eyes the kids as they are now singing ‘Little Girl, Big City’ in a choreographed feather boa dance.
Thank landscaper for the information.
Landscaper leaves.
Go back to prepping chicken.
Kid and friends need water.
You show them where their water bottles are (in the same place they always have been) and return to your chicken.
Water floods the floor.
One kid cries. One kid laughs. One kid starts denying culpability in a Russian accent.
You begin to clean up the water.
Kid one: “Miss Heather I need a diaper for my Teletubby.”
Kid two: (in Russian accent) “In Russia we ‘ave no diapers. In Russia YOU are ze diaper.”
Politely tell kids to get out of your kitchen.
Your kid: “LET’S GO OUTSIDE AND CONQUER.”
You get back to prepping the chicken.
You hear your kid scream.
You abandon the chicken and rush outside.
You slip on the water that wasn’t completely picked up and go ass over tea kettle on your kitchen floor.
Your kid is still screaming.
Your hip is definitely fucked but you go all hulk mom mode, get up, and rush to your kid.
“Oh, sorry, Mom. It’s just this really cool leaf I found.”
Hobble back to chicken.
Kid and friends decide to remodel living room.
Where did the chicken go?
There’s a couch in your kitchen.
“Mom- how attached are you to the T.V.?”
You forgot the sides. Is your kid going to just eat chicken?
Your partner gets home.
Your Partner: “Why are you limping?”
Your kid: “What’s burning?”
Have wine.
You don’t drink wine.
Have more wine.
Order pizza.

*This is a mostly entirely almost all the way based on a true story that definitely probably happened tonight.*