A chip of paint from her fading painted fingernails flakes from her index finger and falls slowly to the tile floor of the family doctors' office.
Her children, three in tow and all less than 4 years, conduct unruly business commonly seen only in a jailhouse setting vice that of the quietness expected from a medical office waiting room.
"Stop it, and sit down!" she instructs the largest and assumed one in-command.
The boy looks up with eyes half-crazy and red kool-aid-stained upper lip in full display and cheerfully cries out an unsympathetic "no."
"Little bastard," I think to myself.
The woman's tired eyes are shadowed only by her sagging shoulders of ages of spent convincing child one, two, and three to act accordingly.
This is unreal; yet, this is all too real.
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