Deli Sliced Chicken Salad + Fistballs = Parent of the Year!

Sometimes we get sliced honey roasted chicken breast from the deli. Some days, like most people, the girls make sandwiches out of it for lunch. Today would have been one of those days except for a small problem. There wasn’t enough sliced meat to make two sandwiches. There was only enough to make 1.5 sandwiches. (Maybe only 1.25 sandwiches) Neither one wanted to be the one with half and they loudly an obnoxiously made their point very clear. Being a sane parent I suggested that they divide the meat in half and make ¾ of a sandwich. That wasn’t going to work. The negotiations became heated and turned into an argument. The argument turned into a screaming match. Before I realized I needed to intervene and made it all the way down the hall, the youngest had the bag of chicken tucked under her shirt. She was on the floor and the oldest was on top of her trying to get it. Chaos erupted. A glimpse of an arm or leg, half-formed fists, hair, and pink bunny socks was all I could make out in the confusion. From this jumbled pile came screams of, “MOM! It’s mine! Ouch! You have to share! MOM!”

“Enough. Stop it. Stop shouting. God Damn it, stop fighting!” I told them. They weren’t listening. I was trying to stay calm but it didn’t work out for me. I wondered if I should get the garden hose and spray them.

The pile eventually began to mutate and formed itself into two separate beings. They stood there face to face glaring at each other.

It was then my turn to make sense of the situation. I grabbed the pack of chicken, tore open the bag, and ripped the meat in half. I was in no mood for that crap. Squeezing it in my hands and holding it up above my head I shook my fists and yelled, “You each get half! Is that so hard to understand?”

“HALF!” I shouted as I stomped my foot on the floor.

Then I plopped the battered meat into their bare hands.

They stood there for a second looking at what was to become their lunch.

“What are we supposed to do with this?”

“Do with it as you wish.” I told them and I went to wash my hands of both the situation and the meat juice.

The oldest shoved hers into her mouth and the youngest got a piece of bread and made a sandwich. They both seemed happy.

A little later they were best friends again. Sitting together discussing life. I overheard the youngest tell her sister that the chicken was pretty good. All mushed up it tasted like chicken salad. The oldest didn’t have any complaints either. Hers was like a big meatball. Except it was shape like a fist. A fistball. Kinda like a knuckle sandwich, but different. It was good to hear them laughing together. I hope it lasts.

And now I’m left thinking, “I am so gonna get the Parent of the Year award this year.” I just know it!