Each time Babyface goes to her grandparent’s house; she ends up with a bout of diarrhea the next day (Be advised, there will be a lot of S$&* talking in this post). I don’t mean a one-time doozy. I mean multiple trips to go poopy in the potty with a full range of sound effects.
We can forego physical activity. She must clock at least a mile by running back and forth from the bathroom. Thank goodness we’re past the hit or miss stage of potty training; or we’d literally be up to our knees in s$&*. I know cow dung is the popular choice for floor décor in India and we’re Indian, but I prefer wood or tile or even shag carpet.
The big question: what the hell are they feeding her? Is their eyesight so stretched that they’re giving out Ex-Lax instead of Hershey’s? I only bring this up because, one time, my sister was constipated when we were kids and my parents gave her an Ex-Lax square. I remember complaining that I wanted some chocolate too, so they gave me a square of Hershey’s. I knew the trick. The Hershey’s logo was right on the block. I got the chocolate and I’m sure they celebrated what they thought was genius. Maybe now that they’re old, they’re actually making this mistake. After all, there are so many similarities between babies and old people, but that’s a different story.
I complain, “what are you guys feeding her? Why does she always end up sick after she stays here?” My dad always responds, “You were living on Ho Ho’s and Ding Dong’s when you were a kid and you turned out fine.” (Who at Hostess thought of these names, anyway? I always picture some hippies smoking pot out of a hookah and drawing pictures on an overhead projector. Ho Ho’s, Ding Dong’s, Twinkies and Snow Balls…)
He always gives the Hostess-response with such pride, like he deserves the Father of the Year award for feeding us High Fructose Corn Syrup and getting away with it. I mean, Ho Ho’s have a shelf life of like 12 years. There is something wrong with food laced with so many preservatives that it’ll still be ok for her to eat when she’s 15.
Wait, my dad may be onto something. Hostess should come up with an emergency relief kit. We’d all be like Woody Harrelson in Zombieland, running into a truck full of Twinkies. At that point, it would be survival of the fattest.
My mom always responds, “The kids love coming here. We give them good food. They get so excited. They go into the cabinet and find all kinds of treats.” Her excitement is adorable, but it’s at the expense of my daughter’s health. Can you give her a side of Type 2 Diabetes and heart disease with that 4th piece of chocolate, 4 Vanilla wafers, 2 Kraft Singles and gallon of 10% fruit juice, please?
Yesterday, when I asked, “did she eat okay?” My mom told me they took her to McDonald’s and she “ate really well.” What part of McDonald’s and eating well go together. Haven’t they ever seen Super Size Me? The guy’s health deteriorates completely, in a one-month experiment, while eating only fast food.
I will stop here because I just realized that I may lose my free babysitters, if I don’t stop all of this s$&* talking. Aren’t grandparents great?