Monday, April 23, 2007

Sometimes it's just nice to have company

Good friends were over last night, good friends we haven't seen in a while. I remembered why it is we need to hang around other with children. I witnessed the following conversation:

TheChild: Mom, I'm hungry because you didn't feed me any dinner.

TheMother (who, I might add, is the single most patient person on the face of not only every planet in this galaxy, but quite possibly some undiscovered planets as well): You chose not to eat.

TheChild: I wasn't hungry then. You should have made me eat.

TheMother: Well you can have some leftover chicken when we get home.

TheChild: But I don't like chicken.

It's a bit like when the kids were tiny, especially one of them, who I won't name because both of them can read, and show no signs of ever being unable to read, and I would be at Target and there would be a child somewhere screaming like a banshee (which I've never heard, but I understand can be quite ...noticeable) and I would think "oh your poor mother" and "he he he it's not my child THIS TIME" and then, with a regrettable lack of sympathy, "yay! it happens in other families too!"

Have I shared yet, how it came to be that the children are now packing their own lunches? They begged to pack their own lunches. Actually, one of them begged for both of them. I bet you want to know how. (This is not a story against EITHER of them because they can both dial my cell phone number, so don't be trying to guess which one.)

I was working industrially one morning at my desk when my cell phone crowed like a rooster. (I thought it was cute, way back when, and now I have to keep using it because I paid for that ring tone) I greeted my child warmly, because I often do.

"Is this my entire lunch?" the darling on the other end wanted to know.

I affirmed that it was.

There was a sniff, and a less than complimentary evaluation of the contents of the lunch bag in question, topped off with "This is the kind of lunch people get in JAIL."

The conversation ended in a manner that my VeryPatientFriend would have frowned upon, and when I got home from work that day, I announced my retirement from the Packer of the Lunches position.

Jail indeed. As a co-worker (the father of teenagers) observed, "No, in jail they make you work for your crappy lunch."

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