At a friend's pre-Christmas party, she greeted every single person at the door as they arrived, inviting them to admire her dress, her shoes, and did they know what her favourite colours were? Guests knew her name and how to spell it by the end of the evening; when I introduced myself in conversation, it was all, "oh, you're with HER!" as though I was merely the roadie on tour with the rock star.
I'm used to that now. As a mother, I am, after all, nothing more than a glorified gopher, here to cart around the gear, take care of set-up and tear-down, and ensure the strict conditions of the rider are met (with absolutely NO substitutions):
Pink and purple Smarties.
Chocolate Timbits.
Peanut butter sharks (quartered, standing up in a pool of yogourt).
Caesar salad croutons (aka "crackers"), no salad.
Baskin-Robbins Love Potion #31 or Rocky Road ice cream.
Cheerios. No milk. Served in a bowl on the floor so she can eat them like a puppy.
Breakfast burritos (eggs, sausage, bacon, cheese, tortilla.) Ingredients must be out on plate and NOT touching.
Dippy (usually ranch dressing, but also encompasses ketchup, hummus or other condiments, depending on whatever's being used to get said dippy into the mouth.)
Orange juice. NOT red juice.
Bacon. Twisty bacon. With everything.
Grilled cheese sandwiches. With bacon.
Spaghetti carbonara. You know - the type with bacon in it.
Bacon-flavoured crackers.
Chocolate milk. With a twisty straw.
McDonald's French fries. All other fries are inferior.
Corn. But only if it's still on the cob.
Smoothie-smoothes. Blender must be over 20 feet away.
Pepperoni and cheese pizza.
Green room must be stocked with Disney movies, episodes of Bo on the Go and Animal Mechanicals, and exactly eight Buddies. Dress code limited to pyjamas. Access to a bouncy room required (you know, those crazy inflatable castles featured at carnivals).
Sigh. I can't even begin to imagine what this next kid's going to demand ...
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