Sip locusts

You know how your mom told you that you'd understand some day and you thought, no, no I won't because you're mean and I'm not going to be mean, so there? Because you were twelve and kind of horrid?

Well, when I was little, long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away ... . No. Seriously. When I was a kid, my mom drank a diet soda almost every day and the musical pop of that can opening and that sweet, forbidden liquid fizzing into a glass of ice was like a homing call for my sisters and I. We'd crawl out of the woodwork and beg and whine and plead.

A siiiiiiiiippppppp? Just one siiiip? Pleeeaaaaasseeee? Moooooo-oooooom? Just one?

And she was all, no. Like it was nothing. Just no. Go away, even.

I thought my mom was mean. I still remember feeling, deep in my soul, how mean and selfish she was. She had that whole beautiful glass of fizzy pop all to herself - and not even just one - oooohhhh no, she could go and get another one out of the fridge any time she wanted - and she wouldn't give us a teensy, weency, tiny, little sip.

Mean.

Mom. Here you go. You waited almost forty years, but here it is. Sit down. I was wrong and I now understand. I'm so sorry I judged you.

I like icy cold ice water. I like it crystal clear with an unsullied straw. My favorite is from Starbucks because it's triple distilled and as clear as clear can be. But I swear on all that is holy and pure, the minute that green-aproned barista hands me the glass of icy cold goodness, it starts.

I dirsty.

No, I'm thirsty.

Momma, I'm thirsty.  No, me.  

I sip. I sip! I SIP!!

They're like locusts. Viscous, water-hungry locusts who are incapable of taking a sip from a straw without back-blowing gag-inducing crumbs of everything they've eaten for the last three hours into it. Why is there always spittle that hangs between their nasty little lips and the straw? Why can't they just drink with a constant upward pull, why must they snort shit back down?

Why can't they drink from their own damn water bottles that I packed carefully so that I could keep my water separate and pure and unclouded by demonic backwash?

Why, mom? Why? Is my own glass of water too much to ask? The floaties. They ruin it. I'm so sorry for every drink I sullied.

And they're sneaky. I looked away for like a second and one of them has darted in for the sip like a buzzard. You see Nate. I see a harbinger of clear water doom.

Oh, I know. Cute baby saying "cheeeeessse." Look closely. I'll make it very large for you. Uh huh. Snot. Also, granola bar, on his left cheek. BOTH OF WHICH ARE NOW IN MY WATER.

Ew. Dammit.