Best Part of Waking Up: Fake Cheetos in Your Cup

Breaking (down sanity) news flash from the babysitting-five-kids front:

What better way to admit that I'm only a mere shadow of the healthy-food shoveling mama that I say I am than to publicly free myself here of the guilt I bear over feeding my sister's young, impressionable child, along with my three kids, this: Trader Joe's brand Cheeto-ish cheese crunchies in mugs for breakfast?

You bet I'd lambaste either set of grandparents for such a high-fat, nil redeeming nutritional value breakfast offense. Even though I'm a hypocrite for letting them practically eat cake for breakfast, the Trader Joe's version of Cheetos at least contain 30 percent less fat than the real thing and no artificial colors or additives. There, now I feel an inkling better.

Trust me, I started the wee ones' morning off healthfully with Fuji apple slices and syrup free, fake buttered waffles. My first crunchy offering deteriorated quickly when the kids rejected both after discovering the generic cheesy poofs that my sister donated to the babysitting cause. She left the bright orange snack on the kitchen floor in a brown paper bag along with some juice boxes. Curiously, she also left a Ziploc baggy of pumpkin seeds in my fridge that are still covered in slimy pumpkin pulp. I assume I'm to rinse them off with the kids, salt them and bake till super crisp, like my brain today.

Also, in totally unrelated non-news, as I clasped a used-to-fit-me oversized B-cup bra onto my training bra sized matching skeeter bites a few minutes ago (yes, I managed to shower with all these crazy chitlins ricocheting wildly off the springy beds of my domestic world), I thought up this self-deprecating, zany jingle that can be crooned to the tune of Motown heyday hit Mr. Big Stuff (not that anyone would want to be caught dead doing such a thing):

Mrs. A-cups, who do you think you are?
Mrs. A-cups, you never gonna fit in this bra.
Mrs. A-cups, who do you think you are?
Aw, snap! (Instead of aw-yeah)

Okay, so it's only funny to me, me thinks.

Now to go scrape the kids off the pull-out couch bed and away from the trance-like grip of TV's most vexing purple dinosaur.

I'll spell check/grammar check this later, when I'm not wrapped in a towel just out of the shower and wrapped up in five kids.

Ps. What's the worst, most shameful thing you've fed your children for breakkies?