Those who know me well know I don’t like to share things, especially food or drink. I know where I get it. My mom gets flaming mad when my dad declines a drink or a dessert, but then takes a bite or drink of hers. You said you didn’t want any, she would hiss. Why are you taking MINE?
I used to be annoyed by this, but I find myself glaring as Josh takes a sip of my wine after I’ve offered to pour him his own glass. Also, I may offer my coworkers some of my afternoon popcorn, and though I willingly dole some out, I’m dying inside. Yes, I want this whole damn bag to myself. I know how good it smells, that’s one of the reasons I made it.
I grew up with a sister who probably feels the same to this day, as we were often encouraged to share a lot of things, though it often didn’t end well. For Anna’s birthday, she had the Birthday Barbie on her cake. Birthday Barbie’s pretty pink dress went up in flames from the candles (from that old bitches’ entire eight candles, am I right?), and my perfectionist sister desperately tried to trim the scorch marks off her dress, but couldn’t get it even enough and her altered dress looked kind of trashy, even to my careless eyes. But, I still wanted that Barbie, and was encouraged to share.
But, one month later my birthday came, and my Birthday Barbie sat pristinely on top of my unlit cake. My sister, consumed with envy, convinced me to trade her. I think the deal was that I actually wanted to play with my Barbie (shocker I know) whereas hers would be on display in her room like the collector’s item it was. Weirdo.
Anyway, I’m obviously still a little sore about how that whole sharing thing went down. Sharing doesn’t sit well with me.
There are things I knew would come with motherhood, such as my child bursting into the bathroom while I’m doing my business, or attempting to tone down my sailor mouth, but I didn’t think these things would happen so soon. The bathroom thing has already happened numerous times, thanks to the shitty construction of our house, the doors don’t really latch and even my nine-month old crawler can push the door open. As for the sailor mouth, well…using the word “shitty” is an improvement.
On Jim Gaffigan’s “Fried Bread” segment, he talks about eating in his car so he doesn’t have to share with his kids. I thought this might happen when Liam was around aged five, but already, it’s an issue. I splurged on a big box of Blue Bunny Orange Dream bars. Not my favorite treat but hey, 70 calories a bar. It’s been hot and humid for over a week straight and a couple of nights ago I needed an Orange Dream. Of course, Josh wanted a bite, and I encouraged him to get his own goddamn Orange Dream. To which he whispered to for me to watch my mouth. To which I glared at him and politely told him to get his own Orange Dream. He did and offered some to Liam, as we have been instructed to give him whatever we are eating, though I doubt the doctor meant to give him frozen sugar snacks. Which, by the way, feeding a child causes you to face the harsh reality of the garbage you eat.
Liam tentatively put his mouth on the treat, was shocked by the cold and pulled away. Then he tasted the sugar and his face totally changed. As he pulled his little face back to the Orange Dream, I’m like, yep, this is my kid.
I watch this go down and think it’s cute, until two days later when I’m home alone and grab an Orange Dream. I sit on the couch and see Liam lock eyes on it, frozen, with a little toy in his hand. He instantly starts crawling towards me, pulls himself up to standing and puts his hand on my knee and politely opens his mouth, ready for me to share with him. Clearly this has made an impression.
Dammit Josh, this is your fault, I think. He’s so cute. How can I say no? I share my Orange Dream with him. He can’t really chew it yet, but more just slobbers all over it, which secretly grosses me out. I let him mouth it a little bit and throw it away.
Then I go the kitchen and quietly go to the freezer to get one that I can have all to myself. I’m about to close the freezer door when I pause and peek around the door to see Liam has followed me and is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, stuck behind the baby gate. He is zeroed in. He knows what I’m doing. I duck behind the open freezer door and open the Orange Dream and eat it as he makes angry little noises. It’s mean, I know. Part of me is telling myself that I really don’t want to get him hooked on sugar too early, like I am. This is completely true, but also I really just don’t want to share, if we are being really honest here.
Well, guess I’m not winning that mother of the year award, I think. Though, I’m pretty sure I lost my shot at that when I went to his nine month checkup, hung over, in yoga pants, which no makeup and unbrushed hair. To be fair, it was after our first night out without Liam the night before. Why did I agree to an eight am Sunday morning appointment? Of course, my sister told me that doctors respect those Moms actually care enough to show up to their kid’s checkups, so I get a little credit there. I guess I can forgive her for that Barbie thing.
I guess I’m going to have to get used to sharing. But maybe not yet, as I start to play peek-a-boo with Liam around the freezer door and he forgets his rage. The next day, I see a sign on the daycare door that Hand Foot and Mouth disease is going around, and I feel vindicated.
Sorry kid, get your own goddamn Orange Dream.
