They’re 9 and 11. I teach them over at their home. The youngest one, at his own express request, always gets skittles and something else. The oldest one gets two things. He’s not picky when it comes to refined sugar in any form. The empty wrappers I hide in my bag, cause I don’t want their mother to comment on their sweet tooth. This is why I still have the wrappers with me today.
Call me absurdly intolerant or a nervous wreck, but the sound of those skittles dropping on the floor bugs the hell out of me.
On top of all the stress I experience those ting ting ting sounds feel like little knives in my brain.
So yesterday I told them if any drop on the ground today am not getting you anything next week. And I fucking meant it. Sometimes I open the pack for the youngest one. So they ask: ‘But what if you drop them?’
‘Then that would be my fault. Then you’re still getting your candy next week.’ That must have sounded like a fair deal to them. They didn’t drop any.
As a small child every fibre of my being dreamed about invading Russia and doing better than Napoleon and Hitler. My real life victories are significantly smaller in stature.