How to Cure a Moocher

Life is interesting when you have a child. And when you have more than one or two children, life tends to get more interesting. And when most of them are teenagers, let's just say, things are seldom boring at my house.

For instance, I have a child who loves food. I mean really loves food. Because of that, this child is an excellent cook. This child is also in excellent form and doesn't look like a person who loves food (which stinks, because I'm in my forties and mother nature is against my waistline right now.)

Anyhow, this child (who, for the sake of your sanity, and this child's anonymity, I shall call April) also likes to mooch food. No yummy item is safe. If a wrapped deli sandwich is left in the fridge, the owner will find it minus a bite or two. And when confronted, April gives the best apologetic grin, followed by an equally flowery apology, followed by a promise of gummy bears the next time she has any - and life goes on . . . until something else is mooched.

Every person also knows this, and has taken measures to prevent it. Little signs sometimes pop up on items. And after repeat offences, the signs sometimes read something like this: April, touch this and you die.

Sometimes it even works.

Now for the sake of fairness, I have to admit that others in the family mooch too, but 99 times out of 10 (yes, that math is accurate), the culprit is April.

So, another child of mine, whom I'll call Bert, (sorry Bert, but names aren't my thing today), came home with one of those gigantic fast food drinks that puts a 2 liter bottle to shame.

Well, Bert drank until soda oozed from his ears, and then moaned that he couldn't drink anymore.

Practical mom that I am, I advised him to stop.

"But if I do, April will get it."

To which I informed him that if he was making himself uncomfortable, that might not be a bad alternative.

And so my son went merrily off to the fridge, marking the cup at the soda line to know for sure if a moocher had struck.

Some time later, April came home. And some time later than that I heard April shriek, and then spitting sounds. And then I heard Bert laughing like crazy.

Not knowing if I should show up or not, but wondering what in the Sam-hill was going on, I made my way to the kitchen. April was at the sink, madly spitting. Bert was bent over, holding his middle and laughing so hard I thought he'd throw up.

And there sat the soda, the current liquid a good 3/4 inch below the line Bert had marked.

"Salt," April sputtered, gulping down a glass of fresh water, then coming up for air. "He put salt in that soda."

Still laughing, Bert grabbed the soda cup and offered her more. If I hadn't of been there, I'm sure Bert wouldn't still be grinning.

Needless to say, April made her retreat, Bert put the soda back in the fridge (watch out you other moochers), and I think all future drinks of his are safe.

And just to be sure, I'm not putting any drinks of mine in the fridge for a while.