Crabby and Human

“Mama, you are the queen of crabby and tired!” proclaimed seven-year old Etta, hands on her hips. I glared at her. Me, crabby? I was NOT crabby, dammit! So what if I had snapped at her once or twice. Ok, maybe three or four times. “Finish your snack already!” “Stop hitting your brother!” “Don’t leave your candy wrapper lying around, I’m not your maid!”

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