I return from two hours of running around a 10km radius to acquire groceries to both feed my family this week and to fill the freezer for when I am away next weekend.
I return with many bags full of food and an afternoon of intensive food prep ahead of me. I have help putting away some of the groceries, but the family quickly returns to the table to continue with the role playing game they’ve involved themselves in. The spouse is intently reading some documents he’s printed off the internet for this game.
Child three asks for a glass of the juice I picked up. I stop what I am doing, take out a glass, and attempt to open the bottle. My delicate feminine flower hands prove too weak to open the bottle, so I walk over to the table where the family is playing, and place it on the table, in front of the family member with much stronger hands, the implication being that he can open it. I return to my interrupted task of putting away groceries, and focus on the childrens’ demands for food, because of course no one attempted to feed themselves while I was out.
So now I am shelving groceries, running a list of what I intend to cook before bedtime (four menu items) and figuring out what to feed everyone for a belated lunch because, according to them, they are all FAMISHED.
Child one picks up the bottle, attempts to open it, finds her own hands also to be lacking in the strength required to complete the task, and walks back to me to open the bottle. Keep in mind that she is sitting right next to her father.
“Please open this,” she says.
“I can’t open it,” I reply. “Your father is RIGHT there. Please ask him.”
“But he’s busy doing something,” she responds.