Right. So. Parlee

I woke up this morning to beautiful sunshine and two happy little faces and decided we were going to MAKE something of today.  No hanging around the house, we were going to take advantage of the sunshine, eat fresh strawberries, get ice cream.  Basically create a Norman Rockwell-esque, gorgeous weather, kinda, morning.  You get the idea.  So.  I (ingeniously) decided to take the girls to Parlee  Farm alone.  It's 9AM, the farm should be relatively quiet.  We are going to dance amongst the strawberry fields, in cute outfits, without a tear or a whine in sight.  I'm not really sure where I conjured up this imaginary scene, obviously I had not had a coffee yet.

Fast forward, Parlee.  It's 9AM.  It's PACKED.  There are like nine million super moms pushing high tech strollers complete with infants in ergo-body, baby, whatever wraps EVERYWHERE.  A little doubt crept in, but I pushed forward.  Norman Rockwell, remember?

Then the shit hit the fan.  Maggie vomited her entire breakfast down the front of her overalls, I ran out of quarters to feed the bunnies.  TEN MILLION children were in line to feed the goats, I swear.  And every story needs a climax to let's just get to ours shall we?  I turned to address Maggie for oh, 32 seconds, and Harper casually went over to examine a chicken, and before I could stop her, shoved a hand in there for closer inspection and yup, bitten by a chicken.  Cue angry, 'judgey-ish' scowls from the super moms. sigh.  (YES LADY, I DID almost let that chicken eat my baby).  No harm, no foul.  Ha, get it, foul.  But, I digress, you get the shrill, screaming baby picture.

We left relatively unscathed after the chicken incident, minus one panicked trip from the car, back to the bathroom (we made it, thank the sweet baby jesus).  Pulling out, Mags looks up and says, "Mom?  Did you know Harps DOESN'T LIKE CHICKENS ANYMORE?!?!"  Right baby.  I know.  But Norman Rockwell, remember??