First, lets see if I can type this without my cat insisting on typing it for me. Which leads me to a sudden thought: cats are a lot like husbands; selfish, demanding, sometimes lovable but mainly just a stinky pain in the butt that you wonder how you acquired in the first place (and what you'd been smoking at the time...and probably that you'd like some more of whatever that was).
But I digress...
So I was onto the second half of my breakfast (first half being a hostess apple pie packet), a package of Snoballs. They are, without a doubt, the Holy Grail of processed, packaged snack products. Its like a ball of love covered in a chewy, corn syrup laden cloud then delicately sprinkled with toasted pink flakes of heaven. Ahhh...what could possibly disturb the near orgasmic experience of consuming one of these in bed on a sunny morning? The pitter-patter of pre-schooler feet.
I had deftly hidden the package up my nightgown as I left the kitchen so my son didn't see, then distracted him with a Curious George cartoon. (By the way, who lets a monkey with the mental capacity of a retarded three year old wander a city alone and think it's perfectly normal to see him walking down the street? What happened to realistic cartoons like Thundercats or CareBears?)
I sat down to bathe my insides in poisonous, sugary heaven when I heard the distinctive creak of the bedroom door. I looked over, Snoball half crammed in my mouth and realized I had been found out. From across the room, our eyes locked. Every emotion a four year old can silently feel flashed across his face: betrayal at not being told there was cake, disbelief, shock, and the subtle formation of a plan. He looked at my snack cake as if a radiant, holy light was emanating from it, beckoning him forth to lap at it's pink, flaky surface.
Lunging forth, he laughed diabolically while trying to wrap his squiggly, sticky fingers around my balls of contentment. I tried, I really did...but in the end, he walked away with a Snoball; victory radiated from his face. Then he came back for the other half of the second.
I comforted myself thinking that at least he would enjoy it in a way that only a four year old can enjoy chocolate cake for breakfast. Then he came back three minutes later, half naked, with the marshmallow covering of the snoballs pasted over his nipples.
It's going to be a rough day.
