The coffee shop was not ready for us. The bell above the door chimed politely as we entered—but what followed was anything but polite.
Seven children. Two strollers. One toddler escape artist. Three sugar-starved pre-teens. A diaper bag that looked like a refugee emergency kit. And one four-year-old asking loudly, “Does this place have chicken nuggets??”
They did not. We descended like a hurricane. Mylene had her twin girls, armed with pink toy cars and a pathological need to throw them into innocent civilians’ ankles. Jhing Jhing carried her baby strapped to her chest like a tiny war general, while her daughter ran ahead screaming “CUPCAKES!” as if she was declaring war.
Me? I had Jaya wiping chocolate milk off his face using the dog’s hoodie he passed on the sidewalk, Maya trying to o
