I get that LRR is not my biological spawn. I fully accept that some things are out of my control, like that she prefers using her right hand, despite my best efforts to engineer a southpaw. But today I was reminded that my influence only goes so far, and quite frankly it was devastating. Parents, shield your young ones’ eyes.
This is a piece of donut thrown on the floor by Lucie. A DONUT on the FLOOR. Not only was this cake donut thrown down in disdain, but also the glazed donut hole before that. To my horror, I gave Lucie (Lucifer?) a bite of maple bar–quite possibly the king of donuts–only to watch it dribble out of her mouth in slow motion heartbreak.
I. Don’t. Like. This.
She didn’t even have the decency to break eye contact as the rejected specimen fell to its demise. It was a cold moment that still sends shivers up my spine.
Who is this stranger I’ve been living with for almost two years? Why am I just now finding out about her, and what am I to do now? How could it be that the baby I was so proud to call my own will not follow in my footsteps as a connoisseur of crullers, a bearer of bear claws, a fighter for fritters?
Alas, nature vs. nurture has struck again.
She chooses fruit. Double fisted gobs of fruit.
And look who we have to blame for that. It’s Ms. Applesauce-is-a-viable-snack.
Ha. Smile all you want, Team SFAV (stupid fruits and veggies). I’ll get my revenge. Yes, I’ll probably have Type II Diabetes while I get it, but know that unlike kale, donuts last a very, unnaturally long time. As with this passion project, my friends.
In the meantime, have fun with your silly little plaid tops and fruit snacks and coordinating shoes.
The donuts will have their day. In the name of Homer Simpson, the donuts will prevail.
The Roquardt Experience 