As is the custom, the day is filled with family and tons of food. Especially salads. Unless it is of the Jello variety, my children act like eating the minuscule amount of lettuce and spinach I put on their plates is akin to being stuck in an elevator for 14 hours and having to endure the need to pee and piped in muzak versions of “Like a virgin” and Nirvana’s greatest hits.
My insistence that they consume the roughage that I gave them resulted in a weirdo discussion that is alarmingly commonplace in my little family:
James: “See, I look at it this way. The Green Salads are the Axis and the Fruit and Jello Salads are the Allies.”
Christopher: “Well, what about macaroni salad?”
James: “The macaroni salad is Switzerland. ‘Cause it’s just kind of “Eh” Potato salad is Japan and I think that the tomatoes IN the Green Salads are the terrorist because they are FOUL.”
Christopher: “Well, what would the ONIONS in the green salad be? A nuclear bomb?”
ME: “Stop comparing your food to warfare and EAT YOUR SALAD!”
James: “But, wait. What would this icky salad dressing be? A Kamikaze?”
Sometimes being a mother hurts my head.