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Broke Wife, Big City
The Case of the
Missing Dino Nugget
By Aprill Brandon
It’s lunchtime.
Again.
I know.
You can’t believe it’s lunchtime again. Wasn’t it just lunchtime
yesterday? And the day before that? How many times does this kid need
to eat?
But so goes the life of the parent of a toddler.
Only, the thing is, this lunchtime is different. This lunchtime, you’re
already hour 16 into your new diet. That stupid, stupid new diet you
Googled and pledged an oath to after not insignificantly injuring
yourself on that deceptively sharp pork chop bone at dinner last night.
But what? Like, you were supposed to waste food? There was still a
slightly visible morsel left clinging on there. And people are dying,
man. Of hunger. That bandage on the upper right side of your mouth is
proof you have a heart and care and stuff.
And so, you make lunch. Again. A semi-acceptable lunch (depending on
who you talk to as long as who you are talking to is not Sienna, mom of
Coco, from the playground) of corn on the cob, peas, applesauce and
dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for junior. And a plate of vegetables
(a.k.a. tasteless dirt fruit) for you.
Within 10 minutes, you’ve already inhaled your carrots and hummus* and
assorted green crap (crap meant quite literally here as, at some point,
some cow probably defecated on all these things).
*Fancy word for “not ranch dip.”
Which means, you have a good 45 minutes left of sitting at the table
just staring at The World’s Slowest Eater as he happily smears ketchup
into not only his hair but also his ears. Which, luckily, gives you
plenty of time to reflect on just how hungry you are. And you ARE
hungry. You’re starving. I mean, look at you. You’re wasting away.
You’re practically a waif.
And then there’s that last dino nugget. Just sitting there. All lonely
on his plate. Getting colder with every passing second. Chockful of
delicious fat and salt and cancer-causing chemicals that magically
makes boring, old chicken taste like deep-fried unicorn.
He wouldn’t even notice, you reason to yourself. Look at him.
Completely oblivious. Too busy leading the corn on the cob on a
Viking-esque raid against the defenseless peas. Smash. Smash. Smash.
Meanwhile, the nugget sits all alone in the southwest corner,
completely undefended. You should eat it just to teach him a valuable
military strategy lesson.
No. No! You would never do that. My god. Stealing food practically from
your child’s mouth! What kind of monster are you?
EXCEPT…”technically” the nugget is nowhere near his mouth. I mean, he
doesn’t seem to have any interest in it or anything. It’s so bad for
him anyway. The only reason you gave him the dino nuggets is because
it’s the only way you could force some protein down his tiny adorable
throat. And he’s already eaten four of them. You eating that last one
would only make his lunch all the more healthy.
No. No! My god, woman, think about what you’re proposing here. He’ll
want that last nugget. You know he will. Just as soon as he’s done
drowning the defeated and maimed peas in applesauce. Rise above this.
Find some willpower, lady.
Just one taste, though. A tiny bite. Just to make the temptation go
away. And he can have the rest.
No. No!
But then, without even realizing it, you look down in horror and see
the nugget is gone. And you are chewing. And then swallowing. And it’s
too late now. That hormone-stuffed, vaguely-shaped Tyrannosaurus Rex is
already halfway to your stomach.
Maybe he won’t notice.
And that’s when the crying begins.
Now, you have three options here.
Option 1: Confess and Bribe
“Baby, Momma’s so sorry. She didn’t mean to. It just…happened. And, I
mean, I’m not trying to pass the buck here or anything, but really,
it’s society’s fault for making me think I have to be skinny. So, in a
way, you could say it was Vogue magazine that ate your nugget. Now
let’s go get you some ice cream!”
Option 2: Straight Up Lie
“I don’t know what happened to your last nugget, honey. Maybe you ate
it? Yeah, I think I remember seeing you eat it. By the way, and this is
in no way related to the missing nugget, but I’m totally buying you a
new car when you turn 16.”
Option 3: MacGyver Your Way Out
“Don’t cry, sweets. Momma is just going to reach down into your onesie
and see if we can find…yep! Look here! A perfectly good half-eaten
nugget stuck between your Buddha belly and chest. Oh! And 13 more peas!
And soggy Cheerios from yesterday. See, no reason to cry.”
The thing to keep in mind here, terrible though your behavior has been,
is that he’ll never even remember that this happened. So relax.
That is, of course, unless you’re the idiot who posted the whole thing
on the Internet to live on for all eternity.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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