A Mother's Prayer
Please God, when my son gets his snack out at camp today, please let him be sitting next to some kid who takes one look at his Trader Joe's yogurt cup and says something like: "Those are awesome! You are so lucky -- I wish I got those in my snack!"
Here's the thing. He likes vanilla yogurt cups. He likes oranges. He got both in his snack today. He also has a skewed sense of what's embarassing, and when he saw his snack option this morning, complained to me that yogurt cups are embarassing to eat, and orange seeds are embarassing to spit out. Nothing I say will change his mind about this, so I am left to hope that a peer convinces him that his food will not permanently relegate him to the Land of the Nerds.
Well, at least he is at Young Writer's Camp this week, and can use the suffering he endures at my hands, my utter snack-cruelty, as fodder for the creative process. Maybe at the book store reading they have at the end of camp, the audience will be treated to a scary tale of a witchy mom hell bent on poisoning her offspring with seemingly healthy snacks that are actually going to melt their eyeballs and cause their fingers to curl up like curly fries.