It’s 5:45 a.m. Naturally my kids think it is a totally acceptable time to wake up and start asking for complicated things like milk and consciousness. With indiscernible grunts intended to be warmth and affection I hand them their milk. Squinting through mascara smudged, bloodshot eyes, I begin my search. I find the sticky remote from between the couch cushions.
With a wave of my hand and the press of three buttons I am home. Ah, Netflix. Sweet friend, just help me keep these kids busy until this cheap red wine haze lifts and the coffee finishes brewing.
Fast-forward to 9:00 p.m. on Friday night. The kids are finally down; I have given up on the kitchen. My husband suggests we spend time together watching TV. The DVR is so badly neglected that we still think Jon Snow is dead so we opt for Netflix. What to watch. Ah, a new documentary about food. We both like documentaries. We both eat. Sold. Pour the wine. Let’s get this started because we both need to go to bed in about 48 minutes.
Credits roll. Stress level: Critical. Hypochondria: Raging. Parent guilt: Incalculable. Aside from that first sip of wine the glasses haven’t been touched. The popcorn is still in the microwave. We’re sweating. In a panic we start pinning vegan recipes. In a fit of hysteria we find ourselves hunched over the produce drawer clenching a cucumber whisper shouting to no one in particular, “THROW OUT THE MUSTARD.” We consider waking our oldest to see if she has any of the tell-tale signs of autoimmune disease. Everything we thought we once knew about nutrition is a lie and we’ve been slowly poisoning our family with spaghetti and meatballs for the better part of 4 years.
In the end I find Netflix to be like that friend you know you can call when you’re too drunk to Uber. She’ll roll up with Del Taco and Gatorade but in the morning she’s going to text some uncomfortable statistics about liver disease and codependency. Cheers, friends.
