6:00 p.m. I open a beer because it’s the end of the workweek, darn it, and I am still entitled to unwind with a drink even though a twenty-month-old may or may not be currently pulling all of our pot lids out of the cabinet and slamming them onto the kitchen floor over and over and over again in a headache-inducing manner that indicates she may have superhuman strength. We should really move those lids.
6:01 p.m. Upon seeing me take a sip of the beer, my toddler immediately decides it is the only thing she has ever wanted in this life. All the books and toys we purchased for her are meaningless detritus. The beer is everything. She demands I give it to her and refuses my peace offering of a plastic bottle of milk instead. I become paralyzed by terrifying visions of her descending into alcoholism at a young age, so I hide the beer, which only makes her more upset. But at least she stopped slamming the lids.
