Give me a hand

GRIN # 151

Apparently, I have disgusting hands.

Who knew?

Ever since I had my cold, Tyler’s been ultra aware of what, exactly, my hands are doing when it comes to food preparation.

It hurts my feelings.

It started like this: “Mom, is this handmade?” he asked of some meal I’d just given him.

You mean homemade? Like made from scratch?”

Just the idea made me giggle. Kids.

“No. Like, did you have your hands in it?”

I forget what it was, but I had to peel oranges or cut chicken or do something like that.

So I said, “Well, yeah. But I washed them really well.”

“Can’t eat it,” he said, pushing the plate away. “Germs. You’re going to get me sick.”

He was right. I did get him sick. But now neither of us is sick and the hand thing continues.

I opened his yogurt the other day.

“Forget it. You touched it.”

As if I have lice-infested, hair-covered mitts and am likely to leave behind a curly hair or a nit.

“For God’s sake, you eat that right now. Quit with the hands!”

On the other hand, this could be the excuse I’m looking for to get out of dinner.

I mean, I did get out of math homework. If I can ditch dinner too, I win, hands down.

PS: Sorry, hand puns intended.


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