Share? No Fair!

I hate to share my food.

If I were a dog, I'd be one of those obnoxious ones that growls every time someone gets close to its bowl. Because y'all? If I'm eating something, I want to eat it. All of it. Not you. ME. Mine. You wanna borrow the shirt off my back? Fine. Some money? Hey, if I've got it, it's yours (although seriously, don't hold your breath on that one. And on that note, you might not wanna borrow the shirt off my back either since it's probably from a clearance rack).

But food, for reasons unbeknownst to me, is a whole different story. Like recently I went out to lunch with two of my best friends, and couldn't decide between two sandwiches, and my friend Denni suggested that we each get one kind of sandwich and then share and I was all, "...No?"

It's completely unfair because I'm always asking my kids to share their food with each other while simultaneously setting a bad example for them. "Hey. Give your brother a bite of that cookie. What? You want a bite of mine? Well ... no."

Okay, so it's not quite that bad. I always come up with a good excuse. Like, "Oh no, honey. This is a diet cookie. You wouldn't want this one."

It's just that every single time I set out to eat something, somebody begs. It doesn't matter if I'm hiding in the closet or holed up in the garage. It doesn't matter if I've backpacked for six days through remote and dangerous jungles and hiked to the highest peak in Bhutan. Somebody would show up and be like, "Bite?" And when I do offer them a morsel, they either end up a.) taking a huge portion of it, b.) taking the bite I wanted, c.) slobbering all over it, d.) making a mess with it, or e.) all of the above. So you see? Sharing might be caring, but let me show my kids I care by reading them a book or clapping for them or smiling at them or whatever. Geez.

If it's not the kids? It's these two beauty queens.

Puggy and Josie: the reigning household champions of "puppy-dog eyes."

This phenomenon is not limited to the times I'm trying to eat sweet and delicious treats, either. It's standard, boring stuff: my yogurt in the morning. A banana. A piece of cheese. I could prepare my children a huge breakfast that they scarf down like nobody's business and proclaim themselves full - but if I try to eat some dry toast or a pickle or something within five minutes after they're finished, they're on me like white on rice. Even the baby, who lately has perfected the sweetest look EVER, followed by an equally sweet-sounding inquiry: "A biiiiite?"

I need to find some new hiding places to eat in peace. So if ever you hear a noise outside in the middle of the night, and discover me hunched behind your trash can with some beef jerky or a candy bar, just go back to bed. I'll throw the wrappers away when I'm done.