I Want My Epidural Back by Karen Alpert Page B

have dessert.

    ME: It’s not about that.

    (She puts a carrot to her mouth and takes the most minuscule bite you’ve ever seen, like Barbie would take a bigger bite than that.)

    ME: See? It’s good.

    ZOEY: Huuaggghh, huuagggh, huaaggghh (in case you can’t tell, this is the sound dogs make before they throw up) .

    ME: It’s not that bad, Zoey.
    Barrrrrrfffffff. Is it wrong that the first thing that goes through my head is not “Are you okay?” It’s happiness that the throw-up all lands on her plate.

    ZOEY: Now can I have dessert?

    ME: Fine, I give up.

    (I look in the freezer.)

    ME: We’re out of ice cream.

    ZOEY: That’s not fair!!!! You said I could have ice cream if I tried a carrot.

    ME: I did not say that. And you didn’t eat one.

    ZOEY: I did!

    ME: Fine, you can have as much ice cream as the carrot you ate.

    (I take out a bowl and put it down in front of her, empty.)

    ZOEY: Can I get more if I eat more carrots?

    ME: (sigh) Sure.

    (I put some more carrots on a new plate in front of her.)

    ZOEY: How many do I have to eat?
    WTF?

    Seriously, if I don’t move that one damn pea before I put it down in front of her, the entire meal will be deemed inedible.

How to properly ruin a friend’s BBQ
    OKAY, HERE’S THE THING. WHEN I go to a restaurant and I bring food for my kids, I know I’m a jackass. Which is why I don’t need you, Muffy McPerfectpants, to keep staring at me like I’m a jackass. I already know!!! Yes, I see your kiddo ordering off the menu. Yes, I see her wolfing down a spinach salad and gnawing away on a rack of ribs and using chopsticks. And not in the fake kinda way my kids use them by stabbing their chicken nuggets and then eating them like lollipops. And if you think I’m just being jealous, you are 2,000% right. I would KILL to have a child who eats food like a normal human being and doesn’t act like I’m trying to feed her goat scrotum when I put a sandwich down in front of her.
    Anyways, having picky eaters sucks ass. Like here’s the kind of shit that happens:

    FRIEND: We’re having people over for a BBQ Sunday night. Do you guys want to come?

    ME: DO I?!!!!! You’re like the coolest mom ever and I can’t believe you’re inviting me over!!!
    Of course, I don’t really say that out loud because I don’t want to seem too eager.

    (what I really say)

    ME: Lemme check my calendar.
    It’s all empty, just one white square after another.

    ME: Hmmm, sure, I can move things around to make that work.

    FRIEND: Great! Do your kids like hot dogs?

    ME: Umm, no, but don’t worry, I can bring food for them.

    FRIEND: What about chicken?

    ME: No, but seriously, I’ll just bring something.

    FRIEND: Hamburgers?

    ME: No.

    FRIEND: Turkey burgers?

    ME: No.

    FRIEND: Corn?

    ME: Okay, seriously, I’ll bring something for them. I do it all the time.

    FRIEND: Okay.
    And then the day of the BBQ arrives and even though we’ve been waiting around all afternoon counting down the minutes, forsome reason when it’s finally time to leave our house we’re running late and I turn into Cujo and have to yell at my kids to get their shoes on and then when they finally do Holden says he has to poop, and since Holden’s poops smell like an old man took a dump and then died on the toilet, we go back inside to do it in our own home because otherwise we’d have to do it at my new friend’s house and I’d have to go into the bathroom with Holden and my new friend would never believe a smell that bad could come from a little boy’s tush and she would totally think it was me who made the paint peel off her bathroom walls. But I digress. And holy shit, that might be the longest sentence I’ve ever written in my entire life.
    Anyways, the BBQ is so much fun. The kids get to bounce in a bounce house, the dads get to man the grill, and the moms get to suck down