There are legions of reasons why I love being a parent. But like any job, there are certain tasks which suck more than others. I mean, who enjoys cleaning fryer fat vats or handing out coupons wearing a donut costume? I’m not talking about the obvious parental tasks like potty training or that cyclical bitch, laundry. The tasks which plague me are the ones I like to refer to as, The Fine Print.
I suck at meal planning. I have no idea what I’m going to have for lunch tomorrow so how the hell should I know what two other people are gonna want. Especially people, who when asked, call out things like, "California roll" and "Chips." The recent onslaught of food allergies hasn’t helped my cause either. One day I walked into the classroom and was detained and questioned for sending my son with a personal sized Hummus. Clearly pre-school teachers are now being trained by the TSA. I quietly mumbled, "there are no peanuts or tree nuts in Hummus." She icily responded, "if you read the flyer you would know we have a sesame allergy in class."
Sesame, dairy, wheat and PEANUT BUTTER! What the fuckity fuck is going on in the world? Back in the day peanut butter was king. Annette Funicello was the spokeswhore for Christ’s sake. It was Un-American not to eat peanuts during the Carter administration. Not that I’m making light of food allergies mind you. That shit is serious. My daughter has seasonal allergies and the first time she had a reaction I carried her "Kramer v. Kramer" style into the pediatrician’s office. How about in lieu of Starbucks on every corner someone opens up a "Lunch Hut" where for $5 tired parents could purchase a delicious gluten, soy, dairy, wheat, and high fructose corn syrup free organic lunch you could pass off as your very own.
Lately, I find picking up the toys to be the most heinous part of my job. It's as if my children are in a daily race against the clock to take out and play with every fucking toy they own. I accept some of this is my fault. I mocked those who sang, "Clean up, clean up. Everybody, everywhere" opting instead for doing it myself so it was obsessively organized. I had my husband lift couches so Polly Pocket wouldn’t go to bed without wearing both of her stripper shoes. It seems as while our paranoia as parents is on the rise toys seem to be getting smaller and smaller. Hey, Playmobil! Is it fun for you to know I spend time on my hands and knees scouring my house for the microscopic removable moustaches? Are we training our children to work on tiny assembly lines? No wonder our parents made us play with pots and pans. No one ever choked on a pan.
Now give me my Sake!