Whenever my parents would go out of town, my mom told us the story of the boy with the cookie necklace. (Preface: I just realized how sad all her stories are - thanks, Mom.) It goes something like this...
There was once a boy whose parents were to go out of town for a couple of days. In preparation, they made a cookie necklace; there were enough for him to eat one for every meal until they returned. His parents left confident that their son would be fine home alone while they completed their business. However, when they came home, he was - dead. (OHMIGOSH, MOM!) They didn't understand how he could have died of starvation when several cookies were still strung on the necklace. Then why did their son die? Because it was the only fitting ending for one of Mom's depressing anecdotes.
Kidding. He ate all the cookies at the front of the necklace, but he never rotated it to eat those behind his neck.
The moral of the story is - my Mom, has scared herself into thinking we will starve to death if she goes to Wyoming for 3 days. We won't, Mom. Instead of trusting my extensive common sense, she planned, made, and froze all the meals we were supposed to eat - for 3 days. Then when she was leaving, she had to remind me that the meatballs go in the spaghetti sauce, and DON'T FORGET you need SPAGHETTI to put the sauce on, but don't worry, I have already cooked the spaghetti. Boil - do you know what boiling water is?! You mean, mother, spaghetti sauce isn't for drinking?! AND water comes from that silver thing?! HOLY COW!
I started to take offense because though I have proved self-sufficiency in living in an apartment on my own food (see me being alive), she still didn't think we could last the weekend? Gandhi survived a 3-week fast - IN HIS 70'S, MOM. But then I remembered that this is Mom.
One Sunday morning, a couple of days after Broseph had gotten his wisdom teeth out, I came down to the kitchen to find several small Tupperware containers. Each was marked with a sticky note identifying the blended contents within. "Apple," Lucky Broseph. "Papaya," yum. "Peas," ok fiber. "Broccoli," AHAHA Blended Broccoli - boiled and blended broccoli for baby Broseph. Then there was one filled with a sickly-colored mush. Its label read "Chicken." That wasn't even the last of them, but I couldn't resist running up to wake up Broseph for his tasty, pre-masticated breakfast. That's Mom.
So I put the pasta together, and "prepared" her planned meals. Imagine my Mom's delight when she returned to find her 20-year-old daughter alive and well. Now multiply that by 2 when she discovered that her 13-year-old son was also alive and well. Yes, mother, we are all very capable of turning our cookie necklaces.
I am currently accepting applications for leadership positions for the "Useless 20-somethings club."