Finally, the show was over. We were instructed that when our moms came to get us, they would take us to another room so that we could obtain our long-awaited, much-coveted, overly promised, fabulous prize. I was chomping at the bit by the time my mom and aunt stopped yakking. I jumped up and down, clapping my hands together, and begged, “Please, please, please can we get our prize now?”Mom picked up my little sister and fawned over her, telling her what a great job she had done. Yeah right. Can we please just go get my prize now? My five-year-old nerves were shot. I was two seconds away from a breakdown.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we were there. We walked to a tall counter and my mom picked something up. I held out my little hand and eagerly grasped what was offered. It was at this moment I noticed some kids were crying. Others had looks of disgust on their faces. I eyed my prize suspiciously and asked, “What is this?”Mom replied enthusiastically, “Beef Jerky! If you don’t like it, your dad will eat it.”Of all the things they could have given us — candy bars, lollipops, squirt guns, yo-yos, bubblegum, balloons, McDonald’s gift certificates— some presumably capable adult decided to make a bulk purchase of beef jerky.I was a bit sullen on the drive home, but by the next morning I was back to my normal, happy self. I didn’t hate the world anymore, but I still, to this day, hate jerky. I’d give a chewy, processed, dehydrated side of beef to meet the jerk that chose that “fabulous” prize.
Ginger is an author, speaker and mother of five. Find her on Facebook (Ginger Truitt Author), Twitter (@GingerTruitt), or contact firstname.lastname@example.org.