On the desk in my office, stacked between a wooden puzzle and a camera charger, is a mammoth, yet rarely-used package of craft foam. It sits there each day, staring down at my children, calling the kids' names and taunting them.
"Come here Natalie. Play with me. Pay no mind that I cost 100 times more than paper. I'm more fun. All the nice Mommies let their kids use craft foam. Your mother is a monster. Come over to the dark side Natalie!"
This package came into my life about a year ago as I walked through Michael's. It had a purpose. It was for me, well kinda for me, but at the very least it would be on hand in the event that the kids would need it for school. I justified the spend (I think it was around $15) because it was for special occasions. I repeat: FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS!
This week, Natalie was home sick one day (not a special occasion). She walked in and pointed at the package...
"Mommy, can I draw on those?
"No, just get some paper."
"But I want one of THOSE."
"They're not to color on. They're expensive."
And then she put me on the spot:
"But then what ARE they for???"
Crap. And at that moment, I felt shame and disgust with myself because I didn't actually want to reveal to my daughter, my own flesh and blood, the dirty little secret of what my craft foam was for. Because after all, it was completely moronic and what if she ever told anyone...
Thinking quickly, I remembered that the next day was my birthday, which qualifies as a special occasion. So I showed her what the craft foam is for.
We bonded that day over making tiny little hats for a Mike Wazowski. I let her make the polka-dots. Because I'm a giver.
I also let her pick one sheet so she can play with it. I know, I'm a true humanitarian. But I swear if I ever catch her getting into my stash, I'll cut her.
Speaking of "cutting" - anyone want some "salad."
What a waste.