PBJ minus the "PB".

There once was a young child. He did not like peanut butter, so his mommy only made him jelly sandwiches. Every afternoon when that lunch bell rang out, he was tormented by this evil creamy glob. You see.....other kids would have peanut butter on their sandwiches and he had to smell this crap, trying not to hurl as he swiftly ate his lunch. The only defense, a lone fruit roll up. He would take that fruit roll up and stick it under his nose, allowing the smells of fruit mashed into a thin sheet permeate his nostrils.

No. This was no ordinary boy.

It was me! dun dun dun


I hate peanut butter. Always have. Unfortunately for me, my little humans did not inherit that gene. Our oldest little human loves this shit. He eats it like it is going out of style. He grabs for it every time he opens the pantry door. It is like he knows and is taunting me with it.

I still want to Poltergeist with every whiff of the creamy concoction, but have learned to control my breathing. So, every now and then I make him a PBJ and wish with every vein in my body, that one day he may learn to loathe it as I do.

The sacrifices of a father for his peanut butter driven young human.