My little girl was sitting across the table, picking at the buttered noodles that I had chopped up for her dinner. "Tummyache food" I called it. She wanted yogurt, she wanted chocolate, she wanted all kinds of stuff that I wasn't going to give her after the day's events. Between her and her baby brother, in the last twelve hours, I had been puked on, punched, kicked, pulled on, headbutted, clung to, drunk from, kept awake, garroted, smacked, and cried on. I was and am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. So I wasn't in the mood for debate on meal choices.

Gigi: "Mommy?"

Me : "Yes, sweetheart?"

Gigi: "I'm your best friend."