I was in the cereal aisle with my son (who is FIFTEEN) to get cereal to make Chex Mix. He keeps pointing out those strange concoctions loaded with sugars and dyed with psychedelic colors that no self respecting food would ever wear in public-
Me: No. No. No. No. No. No. Look, I don’t buy breakfast products that turn your poop lime green. You-
He starts naming all the others, still sugar laden, frosted, extruded grain paste, but not so weirdly dyed concoctions instead.
Me: No. No. No. No. No.
The Boy: See, Mom? Face it. You just don’t buy us cereal, period.
Me: Good point. You’re right. Your mother does not feed kids cereal for breakfast. You’re how old, and you still don’t know that?
The Boy: It’s not that I don’t know that, Mom. It’s that after all these years I haven’t given up hope yet.
In the car on the way home from the grocery store my 15 year old carried on his rant about all the weird foods none of his friends had ever heard of that he had to eat all the time, and all the normal foods all of his friends always got to eat which he never got to have.
I told him that considering his mother thought of herself as crunchy, he got to eat a shocking amount of junk food (he was eating General Tso’s Chicken from the Walmart chicken bucket special as he ranted). He asked what crunchy meant (‘that doesn’t even make sense, Mom, you’re squishy, not crunchy’). I tried explaining it different ways. We’ve been making our own granola all of his life, so that does not convey ‘crunchy hippy’ to him. He didn’t get the California land of fruits and nuts references. I finally settled on a long list “You know, home birth, cloth diapers, making our own ointments and teas, grassfed meat, home-made deodorant, using baking soda for shampoo, all the reasons why your mother does not buy you those strangely colored cereals, etc, etc.”
The Boy: “Ah. So crunchy means nuts. Another name for that is witchcraft.”