It became glaringly apparent to Daughter 1 that she’s not my favorite a few weekends ago. Please note, that I was not aware of this injustice in our apparently-not-so-happy home. Once Daughter 1 made this discovery (this time), she made me fully aware of this in no uncertain terms.
It was a Saturday. I was sleeping in. Daughter 1 had probably been up since 6:15. She likes to get up early just to make sure the sun rises each morning. And to get the good computer before anyone else has a chance to claim it for themselves.
I was peacefully dreaming of a world that doesn’t start until 10:30 AM when I was disturbed by a poke, poke, poke on my shoulder followed by a “Momma! Momma! Momma!” whispered in my ear.
“Momma! When you went to the grocery store last night, you did not get any ketchup.”
“Wha---???”
“Ketchup, Momma! I just made myself a chicken patty and I need ketchup. You didn’t buy any!”
“Wha---???” I’ve said it before; I’ll say it again: Mornings ain’t my thang!
“What am I supposed to do now, Momma?”
By this point, I had to pee, so I might as well wake all the way up and actually converse with my slighted child. “Honey,” I said as I sat down on the can – no place is sacred in our family! “I had no idea we were out of ketchup.”
“Well, I left it out for you to see! You just don’t love me as much as you love Daughter 2.” And with that, Daughter 1 huffed off.
The part of me that doesn’t give a rat’s ass about being Mother Of The Year, thought long and hard about just going back to bed. In the grand scheme of things, this ketchup incident won’t be the defining moment in putting Daughter 1 in therapy, right??
But, the part of me that had to live with Daughter 1 for the rest of the day, not to mention the next nine-plus years, opted to follow her. And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I asked her to explain herself.
“Well, Momma,” she began as if she were instructing a little old lady on which short bus will take her to Hellmarts to get her Geritol, “I left the empty ketchup bottle out so you’d see it and buy me more. When I checked the refrigerator, there were six bottles of mustard, which I don’t like, but Daughter 2 does like. That means that you love her more than you love me.”
I rolled my eyes and opened the fridge door. Six bottles of mustard indeed. I made a quick count and discovered that Daughter 2 was wrong. There were two bottles behind the orange juice that she didn’t see. I was awake enough to know that this new information wouldn’t help my case, so I closed the door and put the burden of proof back on the prosecutor… I mean Daughter 1.
“OK, Honey,” I said. “Where’s the empty ketchup bottle?”
Daughter 1 looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “On the piano!” she practically shrieked.
“On the piano?” I shrieked back, looking out of the kitchen, past the family room and into the dining room where the piano sits.
“Yes!” Daughter 1 whined. “Where else would I put it?”
I could have stood there and listed off a half dozen other places where I would think to look for an empty ketchup bottle, but what was really at stake here was Daughter 1’s claim that I loved her less because she had no ketchup to put on the chicken patty breakfast that she had to make herself while her momma slept soundly.
No. No. No. I did NOT take myself to Hellmarts and get the early bird her ketchup. I went out to the glove compartment and retrieved 4 packets of ketchup that I stashed in there from our last trip through McGaggles.
With Daughter 1 content and ketchup’d, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my bed. It wasn’t even 9 am, for heaven’s sake! And it was a Saturday!
I had just closed my eyes, when The Dad rolled over, gently stroked my face and whispered, “Did you get any bacon?”
Now, I know, without a doubt, there’s none of that in the glove compartment!
