Unless I can substitute the purple cloths for a set of matching purple hands, face and neck, I don't think I'll be mistaken for the woman mentioned in Proverbs 21.
Friday flapjack breakfast. Nine mouths to feed. Three noisey observers. Nine eggs, twelve cups of milk, nine cups of flour. Unreal amounts of Aunt Jemima syrup.
Three lunches to pack, two forms to sign, one agenda to read.
Then there were the stupid questions and the unrealistic demands. "JOYCE! the baby has milk on his face. You need to wipe him." (I'm simultaneously manning two pans of flapjacks on the stove). "Joyce! When you throw yourself a birthday party, will it be a surprise?!" (that one really drew the blank look from me, as I needed all my restraint to not say something very, very sarcastic.)
A frazzled dad dropping his if-looks-could-kill toddler off. His question: "Do you watch kids on the weekend?"
Oh, no. A woman of biblical proportions I am NOT.