My kids like home lunch. I’m not very good at including a desirable variety of items. It’s not usually a surprise to them about what I might include.
I was caught off guard when my brother noisily searched the remains of my kindergartener’s lunch bag and asked me what the red thing was. He likes to tease me about the “junk lunch” I provide, so I wasn’t paying very much attention… until my daughter asked, “Mom, what’s this red thing?”
My head jerked up and I looked for the alleged red thing. I have no idea what it could be. My brother held up a ziplock bag full of what appeared to be red salsa. But I never ever give my kids salsa. What the heck was that?
I reached for the bag and sniffed at the contents from the outside of the ziplock bag. I nearly retched all over the floor from the horrid odor.
The mystery bag was quickly thrown into the trash as I puzzled over the contents.
Ah hah. I switch out the lunch bags periodically to match the backpack. Sometimes I just can’t find the lunch bag so I use a new one. I apparently neglected to empty the bottom compartment of this particular lunch bag for weeks. The original items in the ziplock bag were tiny wheels of cheese covered in red wax. They must have melted over time.
I felt so badly for my child having brought out the Red Food bag at lunch time, wondering if she had to eat that gross thing in front of her friends. Sometimes, I am absolutely mortified at my horrible mothering skills.
I bit my lip nervously. This would be the last time we saw each other, probably. Hopefully. Maybe.
I think I will keep this decision to myself until I am sure. I mean, what would people say if they saw us together, later? Would they shake their heads at me with disappointment?
“You are so bad for me.” I whispered. “You weigh me down. You make me feel bad about myself. You make me feel terrible afterwards! Sometimes I hate you!”
Frowning, I muttered out loud. “But you’re so damn addicting. I love you.”
Since this was supposed to be the last time, I wanted to drag it out and enjoy it.
I held it in my fingers and up to my mouth. Salty explosion on my tongue! I moaned out loud and forced my eyes back open. It was over too soon, as usual.
Fricken french fries. No more of these secret meetings! Get out of my life, already! I am never embarrassed to be seen with Salad!
It’s calling to me. Not by name, because no one says my name unless they are a telemarketer or the doctor’s office confirming an appointment. Plus, it can’t really speak.
I imagine condensation building around the beautiful mocha cylinder. White froth danced in my vision.
I could even taste it sliding down my throat. It wants me, and I want it.
But I didn’t get dressed today before dropping my kids at school. I can’t get out of the car in my pajamas. My girls keep telling me to throw the bottoms away, since the holes expose my butt cheeks (or underwear, if I had clean ones handy).
Not fit to get out of the car, I cursed the road crew blocking McDonald’s drive-thru.
Frappe, they can’t keep us apart forever. See you tomorrow, same time.
I hopped backwards off the scale in horror. “Whoa.” My voice was indignant, surprised.
What the heck? Half of a Tombstone pizza and two Cokes made me gain three pounds overnight? That’s not fair!
Or was it the two cheeseburgers and fries I devoured yesterday in the car?
Could it be the two brownies that forced their way down my throat? Okay, fine. I confess. I was actually assaulted by three of them. They were so big!
Frowning, I walked briskly to the living room and jumped wildly while flailing my arms. My nephew beelined for me and ran under my dangerous leaping legs. He came to a screeching toddler halt as he turned around to repeat his dare-devil antics.
After a number of attacks, I finally nodded and thanked him for his time.
My toe jabbed at the scale to clear the display. “Come on,” I whispered. A smile slid across half of my face. “Hah! Broken or something!” Half a pound less!
Better gain it back with a frappe. Supermom needs her caffeine.