Christina M. Currie: Oh sweet revenge


They say that revenge is a dish best served cold.

I would never say that my father is the vengeful type, but maybe that's just because the timing wasn't quite right.

Evidently, now it is. Seriously, I couldn't have been that terrible of a child. (That was a rhetorical question. No comments are being solicited from the peanut gallery.)

I understand that when he serves 6-year-old Katie and 5-year-old Nikki cookies and ice cream for dinner. That's not a product of revenge, it's more of a convenience and just the type of person he is. He was always a little more relaxed about the concept of a balanced meal than my mother was.

But this -- this is overboard.

I've been working for months -- months -- convincing the girls that they don't like cotton candy. They hang bags of the stuff all over the place -- the movie store, the grocery store, the toy store. And, as if pure sugar isn't appealing enough, the pretty colors and decorated bag are guaranteed to draw attention (yes, I know that's the point). Each time my kids point it out, I remind them that they don't like it.

Yeah, doesn't matter that they've never tasted it. They have faith in Mama.

So much faith, it seems, that when Papa came in with a big smile and just tickled with the surprise he had, the girls blew it for him when they looked at that bag of cotton candy and said, "We hate that."

Papa was floored.

"Mama says we don't like that stuff."

We'll, nice Papa couldn't imagine why in the world Mom would say such a thing and set out to prove she was wrong.

My girls didn't present much of a challenge. One bite, and they were hooked.

When I went to pick them up (it's amazing the amount of damage that can be done in mere hours), I hardly recognized my children.

They were hiding when I came in. I played along and said, "Oh well, I guess they walked home. I'll be leaving now."

Not a sound. Not one.

They didn't budge until Papa said, "She's gone now."

The little turds. But, I can't really blame them. Who wants to go home when Papa has a house with a princess room and a cowboy room and all the sugar-filled snacks you can eat?

A smarter woman than I would've spotted the nearly empty cotton candy bag and just left.

Not me. I watched while my children ran in circles, climbed the furniture and stumbled around -- drunk on sugar.

It was a sight I'd never seen before. I don't think their little bodies have had that much sugar since I was pregnant (though the powdered-sugar episode during Grand Olde West Days might have come close).

Papa thought it hilarious, but Nana had the grace to look slightly chagrined (until I turned my back and she let loose the laughter she'd been holding back).

I didn't know what to do. There really is nothing you can do. When your kids are on a sugar high, all you can do is ride it out.

I still managed to choke out "thank you" to Papa as we were leaving. He said, "No problem, we enjoyed them."

Yeah, hard not to enjoy the show when you know you don't have to clean up afterward.

Yes, retribution has crossed my mind, but I'm torn. Do I take a leaf out of Dad's book and wait until I have grandchildren? Or, do I casually suggest that the girls spend the night and then give them Mountain Dew and brownie cheesecake with caramel sauce for dinner followed by a cup of sweetened espresso?

In this case, revenge is a dish best served sweetly.

Commenting has been disabled for this item.