4 o’clock in the afternoon, a good time for a snack. I look through our cabinets and refrigerator to settle on chips and salsa. I pop open the top of the jar and sigh heavenly at its chunky ingredients. When I hear Abby’s footsteps toddling in, the crinkle of the bag must have given me away. My first instinct was to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Because sharing does not always equal caring.
“Chacha chip”, she demands her request of a potato chip, while I barely have the first crumb in my mouth. Her pint-sized stature bossing from my knees.
I hand her a chip in hopes of taming the beast, but my plain offering is unsuccessful. “Dip! Dip!”, she bellows, wanting salsa.
Now, even though the salsa is mild, I know from past experience she won’t like it. I place my snack down anyway and wait for her to dip her chip herself, since heaven forbid I help. Finally acquiring sufficient substance on her chip, she takes one sloppy lick before she tries to stuff the spit-infested Tostito back in the bag.
“More chacha chip!”, she huffs.
“Can’t I get a bite here?”, I ask her rhetorically, because I already know the answer. No, the answer is no, I can’t.
I reluctantly share another chip, and attempt a return to my salsa. I again sigh, this time in exasperation, just as she barks in interruption, “More dip!”. The same dip that I know she’s not going to like. I should just give up, deeming the venture futile.
I never knew sharing could be such a hassle until I became a parent. All I wanted was a snack, is that too much to ask? Yes, the answer is yes, it is.