I love my children with all of my heart. All of my being. I would run in front of a bus for them. Jump from an airplane. Kill. Maim. You know, anything for them.
Well, anything except for one teeny, little thing.
Despite having birthed them, changed their diapers, having been covered in their vomit, snot and pee, shoved thermometers up their asses and cleaned their poop out of tubs, rugs and countless other locations, I simply cannot bear to share drinks with my children. Am I alone here?
The way they mouth bottles makes me ill. Is it necessary to put their entire mouth all over it? A small part of a lip would suffice. The little floaties they leave behind? Is that not the grossest thing ever? What are those, anyway? Just general crud floating around their mouths, waiting to turn into backwash? Gag. The lip marks they leave behind? As if I needed a reminder of their invasion. Perhaps, most annoying of all, is that they inevitably will spill my drink somewhere along the way. Not only do I not want to drink it anymore, but now I need to clean it up. The whole thing just makes me crazy. I’ve resorted to keeping my drinks on the top shelf in the fridge whenever I’m not drinking them, far away from the little hands I so adore.
Now, I’m not evil. If one of my children were close to dehydration and in dire need of a sip of my freshly poured water, I would allow them to partake. Of course.
I just wouldn’t drink after them. That’s gross.