Battlefield

Apron at the ready. Hair net tied. Husband kicked out the door. The wife is ready for the battlefield. She steps into the warzone. The children have hungry faces. “Feed me, feed me!” they chirp. Oh, she ignores their angelic faces, for inside these offspring lay sinister intentions.

She storms the front and barrels her way through the kitchen, pushing her way through to the countertop. The brood lies down, prostrate, mouths open, proclaiming to the heavens that they are starving, wasting away. The wife begins to worry the neighbors will call the police. She dives into the pantry and takes her rations. Returns to base. She begins to furiously prepare the meal. All the while, the children drop the charade and arrange their devious plans.

Breakfast is ready, victory is in sight, but the wife cannot lower her defenses. The true battle is at hand. She brings the meal to the table. And so the war begins. Duck! A potato flies over her head, narrowly missing. One child then flanks her, and explodes the ketchup bottle. However, she is ready for this tactic and dives for cover. She finds herself in a landmine of eggs and bacon, which she just prepared. The enemy is learning.

The husband returns, having forgotten his briefcase. He comes to find a mother and her three children laughing hysterically despite the pure chaos around them.