I remember a time when you and I would sit together on the couch and take our time going over your scent, your textures, your size (ahem). We would laugh together, and cry, depending on the show, and you would settle nicely into my palm ready to fill my mouth with the sweetest of tastes.
I remember picking you out at the store and knowing that when I got home there would be time spent together, whether it be because of an emotional break down, a bad day at work, boredom, or just a good show on TV, I could count on you.
And then I had a child.
There was no warning.
You were RIPPED from my hands and I no longer had a moment to enjoy the morsels of heaven I so delicately picked out while shopping (a traumatic experience with a child on its own).
I had to find hiding spots for my favourite treats, making our relationship one filled with secrets and lies, finding time for you in corners, behind fridge doors, and late at night.
I appreciate you more now than ever as my bites are numbered, delicious tastes taken away by a hungry animal who comes in quick for pieces and stays until ever last crumb has been devoured.
Cries of “Mommy, can I have some?” and “Can I finish the rest of that?” surround me as I try to mend the relationship we once shared.
She’s only three but she’s quick.
And apparently she likes you as much as I do.
There will be a day when we’re reunited and can sit down together without chubby hands squashing you and mashing you into a a million pieces. She’ll go to college some day.
Until that day, meet me under the bed.