Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for a life of responsibility and routine. I shouldn’t be in charge of sustaining people even if they are under three feet tall. Between five and seven most nights, I re-think this whole gig. I block out people with real problems and get a little pity party going for myself. I wonder why every little thing has to be so hard.
Mostly I resist the urge to think long on darker realms like vengeance and karma, but on occasion I do find myself fantasizing about a day when Deaglan will have a picky eater for a child. I try to visualize his face when after he toils over French toast or pancakes, lovingly adding cinnamon and strawberries; his little cherub screeches inconsolably that he hates French toast.
I smile with a little satisfaction knowing karma could kick in, gift him with a finicky little buzz-kill who only eats chicken nuggets and hot dogs. I imagine his sense of panic every night trying to come up with nutritious lunch box ideas because his kid gags at the thought of sandwiches, chicken, vegetables, egg salad. Hamburgers. Steak.
Conversely around six o clock those same nights, watching Naveen gobble down whatever I put in front of him, I have two thoughts: He’s officially my favourite again.
And how will we ever afford our mortgage and groceries when this kid comes of age?
Do you have a picky eater where you live?