Long before there were little people constantly around, who like to consume my time, money and soul, there was just me. And I alone went to the grocery store one fine day and bought sandwich bags. The very next day, I was attempting to jam my turkey sandwich into one of these bags when I realized something. I had accidentally bought something called SNACK bags. What the hell is this miniature, too-small-for-a-turkey-sandwich plastic bag? And what kind of unfulfilling, minuscule food would ever fit in it? Annoyed, I tossed the whole box of ’em into the trash. (This was LONG ago… before it was cool to be all eco and whatnot).
Of course, now I get it. A snack bag holds something like… oh I don’t know… maybe veggie booty, pirate’s booty, cheddar bunnies, chocolate bunnies, baked chips, tomatoes, grapes (cut of course), raisins, crackers, apples slices and about 10,000 other things in the perfect child portion.
So this I get. This I don’t get:
1. Why once I have changed a massive poopy diaper, and I have washed, scrubbed and disinfected my hands no less than 3 times – do my hands STILL smell like crap, but my baby smells like a field of fresh spring lavender?
2. Last night, I slammed my foot down on what appeared to be a cockroach and sent that little nasty vixen down the toilet. But my building super insists it’s JUST a water bug. O.k. the term water bug certainly sounds nicer and more fun. I mean, I’d rather invite a gregarious water bug to cocktails and a party than a cockroach. BUT really, when it’s crawling around your kitchen floor, does it matter what it’s CALLED? Just get a pest control guy over here so I can stop bumping into new roommates in the apartment.
3 . Why would my 3 year-old daughter rather leave three pieces of macaroni on her plate (and lose out on dessert), than just finish her dinner and enjoy a chocolate sundae? And the follow-up, why can’t I do the same?
4. Why can’t someone help Britney? You know which Britney I’m talking about. And I’d prefer someone other than Dr. Phil. But I’m not going to be picky.
5. Finally, when we are outside and 3 year-old Dylan requests her sunglasses and I explain that we left them at home, and then she cries and whines and complains endlessly about the bright sun and how she desperately needs her shades and she can’t see (even though it’s overcast) until we finally arrive back at home and then she forgets she even wanted the glasses in the first place – why is that exactly? Oh wait. I know this one. Because she’s 3. And she’s tired. And oh yeah, she’s 3.