Warning: Children are foul and disgusting creatures, capable of creating noxious effluvia that no sane or loving God would permit to exist. If you are in the least bit squeamish, you should perhaps reconsider your apparent intent to continue reading this post.
Cashews. The child wants cashews. The child has asked for cashews. Dear God... please... not the cashews. The very mention of the word (especially in that childish, quavering voice) fills me with existential dread. But how can I avoid the horror?
Look, I know what you're thinking. What's wrong with cashews? They're a perfectly good snack: tasty, filling, reasonably healthy. There are plenty of parents who would be grovelingly grateful to have their offspring ask for cashews instead of, say, Chocolate Covered Cheesy Poofs.
I understand that. Really, I do. But... well...
Okay, here's the thing: it's not the cashews. It's the child.
See, if Firstborn was asking for them, I'd be fine with it. But it's not Firstborn. It's Secondborn. And Secondborn isn't even two and a half yet. And... well... Despite his deep and heart-felt love of cashews, he can't actually digest them.
He chews them happily enough; they fill the emptiness in his tummy and bring a happy light to his eyes.
And a day or so later, I find them in his diaper. Their passage through the human body has not changed them. Stomach acid has not marred them. The varied flora and fauna of the intestines have found no purchase in their nutty composition.
They were cashews when he ate them, and they were cashews still when he pooped them out.
And that is why I fear the call for cashews.