The Cracker and I were down at the local grocery store today. (Still no magic apples BTW.) I go down the bottled water aisle, which also happens to be the chip aisle.
Cracker, 11 months old, February 2004
As I make my selection, the Cracker wanders over to the other side.
Then, in horror, I see him pick up a bag of store brand cheese puffs.
My mind races, but the voices in my head are calm. Put them down. Step away from the bag.
After 15 or so seconds of consideration, flipping the bag over to inspect the back, holding them up to his face trying to see through the clear view window, he gently replaces them on the shelf.
Phew! Look at that! Look at MY kid! Just say no to Cheetos!
I put 90% of my attention back to finding water. The other 10% is watching Cracker out of the corner of my eye. He's still checking out the snacks, but I KNOW that I, MOTHER OF THE YEAR, having nothing to worry about.
"Here!" I spin around to see him grab a bag of the shelf, run back to the cart and throw it in.
CHEETOS CRUNCHY. THE FAMILY SIZED BAG. OH GOODIE, HE'S BRAND CONSCIOUS.
"WHAT are you doing?"
"Me buy deese."
"We don't buy those. WE* DON'T EAT THOSE."
In his best mom you're such an idiot voice, "NanaPappy buy deese. Me eat DEESE NanaPappy house. Otay?"
"No, not okay. This isn't NanaPappy house."
I take them back out of my healthy cart, and ask him to put them back. He does it, but with a sad puppy dog face.
After they are back on the shelf he turns to me.
"Mommy, me go poo."
"NOOOO. Me go poo (insert something unintelligible)."
"You went poo on the potty earlier?"
Um, no, you farted a few times, but nothing actually came out. I will admit it was a good effort, even if you were stalling to try to get out of taking a nap.
"Me no eat den."
That's right. Farting does not earn you an M&M or even a sticker.
"Me eat deese? Pease? Me go poo."
And, since I'd already been dethroned, we compromised. We bought a minimart sized bag for 99 cents and agreed that he can have one when he poos.
Now for an example of what great parents I have. My dad, who has the best sense of humor and the quickest wit of anyone I know, calls my mom's Cheetos shriveled monkey dicks. (Never buy the puffy kind...they suck.) And my mom, who hails from conservative New England, who is no longer conservative after more than 30 years living in California, still is very decent, especially in public. She even began writing down mouse mattresses instead of feminine hygiene products when I hit the double digits. Why? Because try as she might, her daughter failed that class. You see, there was this one incident: Around 4th grade, I wanted to buy any and everything that came in a trial size. We're back in conservative New England when FDS hits the market, and CVS has a big fat display of it. "I'm going to get this" I tell her. "No, put that back." "But Mommy...please! It's deodorant for women. I'm a woman!" Whining, begging, and pleading ensued. "But it's MY money!" Yeah, that's totally a conversation you want to have with your premenstrual daughter in front of elderly shoppers picking up prescriptions. Even now that I'm all grown up and I can still find a way to embarrass her, you know, at Costco, on the phone, long distance, by accident. So she still puts SMD or MD on her list, just in case I show up. Can't say shriveled monkey dicks in public, now can you, even if it is really very clever.
*It's not that WE don't eat junk, WE just don't let the Cracker eat OUR junk. J hides his Chips Ahoy, Cheez-Its and Lucky Charms in a secret cupboard. I hide my unpasteurized cheese in the meat drawer, and TGI Friday's potato skins under the frozen veggies. Every night, at 9:01 sharp, J and I almost kill each other trying to get into the kitchen. And I don't mind if the Cracker eats these things at other people's houses, I would just prefer him to not think it's a meal option at home.