I’m in the middle of my after-dinner ritual, which is neither sipping Baileys nor having my feet massaged. I’m making school lunches.
Vivian and William, meanwhile, are waiting for dessert to be served. It’s Jello that their father has cooked – or whatever it is you do to primary-colored gelatin. I don’t like Jello. If I want jiggly goodness, I’ll stare at my thighs.
While I scour the pantry for food items that my twins will eat, I overhear this conversation coming from the table.
“Dad,” William asks, “can we eat Jello like puppy dogs again?”
I pause to contemplate curling up in the fetal position.
“That was funny once,” my husband says. “Till Mommy saw us.”
Vivian says, “We’ll just do it when she isn’t looking.”
I look over, and two kids and one husband are bent over their bowls of glop lapping at them like they’re recently adopted mutts. Which in some way they are.
I jam plastic containers into lunch kits with renewed vigor and scour the pantry again. This time for Baileys.
Are there any desserts that you despise? Also on my list are tiramisu and cheesecake. I know: You now wonder if we can be friends.