I frequently jest that my kid’s pre-school should be renamed the “Community Centre for the Transmission of Communicable Childhood Diseases”, because since he started there in January this year he has literally come down with a new virus or illness every week. Every goddamn week.
It’s not a pre-school. It’s a festering petri dish at maximum biological density for pathogens.
So, I have to admit that I had a little chuckle to myself when my son bought home a cellophane-wrapped pile of Father’s Day cookies that the kids all made themselves at pre-school. I chuckled because they weren’t intended for me, which meant that I wouldn’t have to eat them. And I especially chuckled at the fact that my husband would.
When he unwrapped them this morning I had to stifle the involuntary urge to retch. Picture five mis-shapen lumps of brown, doughy nuggets with a striking resemblance to dried-up bowel movements sprinkled with raw sugar. All I could think was that 29 snotty little pre-school kids had made these, grubby little hands digging deep into dough, smushing, rolling, kneading.
Fecal matter sifted with flour, eggs whisked with e-coli, snot creamed with sugar, a sprinkling of head lice. Fist-sized clumps of sticky brown gunk dumped on a tray and baked for 15 minutes. Delicioso!!
My son was so excited to gift them to his Dad that he was literally jiggling around with excitement, like he was going to wet his pants. He wanted his Dad to eat one. He wanted Fannel to eat one. He wanted me to eat one.
He wanted ME to eat one….
I reluctantly took a bite. I tried to tell myself that the gritty texture was intentional. That it was just cocoa and raw sugar. That it was anything other than the accumulated dirt from underneath the fingernails of a rowdy pack of pre-schoolers who had just rolled out of the sandpit, detouring via the toilets for a poo-stop without hand-washing en route to the designated cooking activity.
Three bites in and I found it. A hair. A fucking hair. I gagged. I literally gagged. The worst thing is, that when I pulled it out of my mouth and from the rest of the cookie it was baked into, the hair was thick, dark, brown. My son has fine blonde hair. This was not my son’s hair. This was random preschool hair.
I love my son. I would DIE for my son. But there was NFW I was putting that shit anywhere near my mouth again.
I think this must be karma for feeding my husband spaghetti bolognaise laced with kitchen grit flung out of a sponge.