Treasure Box

Some people hate the words moist or panties. I hate the words treasure box. For me, they are only associated with whining, nails on a chalk board ... waterboarding.

Dick.

You see a sweet, adorable chick hatching out of an egg. If you held it you'd be able to tell that it's an eraser.

I see an asshole. All because Matthew brought it home yesterday along with these words: 

I got to go to the treasure box!

I was happy for him, proud even but cringed because I knew that in no less than five seconds the tears, the begging, the whining would start. You see, it's a given from Day One that when someone w/ treasure = them w/o treasure that THE WORLD IS OVER. Treasure box for parents has the intrinsic ability to immediately transport us to that Special Ring of Hell (I have VIP seats).

I wish I could tell you that there's a cure for treasure box, but there isn't a cure. There is only time. In time, the item will get lost (accidentally or on purpose) or it will break. And then you cross every finger and every toe and hope to GOD that your next interaction with treasure box is far, far, far off into the future.