peevish mama

The clack of the wooden screen door.  A minute passes.  I glance at the clock.  9:08 a.m.  I dry my hands and poke my head out of the kitchen.  Was it someone coming or going?  I find a couple extra kids on the couch eating grapes, shoulder to shoulder with mine while they watch cartoons.  They’re all eyes and nubby bare toes.  

“Hi guys,” I say.

“Hi,” they reply without looking up.