There is one thing I can pretty much guarantee when I give my son a packet of something, a carton of juice or generally anything that has any packaging.
That is, when they are empty, or he has consumed enough of the aforementioned items to therefore make them now useless to him, the remnants will be handed to me, accompanied with his best ‘well-what-else-do-you-expect-me-to-with-it’ face.
This phenomenon is not limited to any one place, or any one time, it is the default no matter the circumstance, what I am doing, what he is doing.
I can be driving the car, cooking the tea, or probably a few miles past several thousand bins that perhaps, just perhaps are where these items are headed anyway.
It also is not limited to waste, drinks are given to me rather than put down safely on a hard surface, as if they may magically disappear, and toys no longer desired, or books recently done with.
This means I always have a pocket full of crap, even though, especially at the moment, I am not the one who has consumed these snacky items.
I am being a tad unfair, as I am really pleased that Max does this rather than ‘litters’. I really do not like littering.
And also he does take some stuff to the bin, and will generally do so too when prompted. A bit like the look, or extended ‘eeerrrmm’ you have to give sometimes before you get a ‘thank you’.
This condition my son suffers from, seems to be an epidemic and may in fact be a genetic condition.
It was my mother who gave me this insight.
Not through her incisive teachings, heaven forbid, the World might never be the same again should that happen (cue email from HQ), but through her very presence.
A presence, that whenever I walk past, I tend to hand her anything I no longer have the need for.