Capri Suns were not really a thing when I was a kid…Ok, they weren’t a thing at all…I predate Capri Suns, Ok? Hell, I predate juice boxes.
I was born in the late seventies, before the technology of juice pouches. If you were outside playing and wanted a drink, you got a drink from the water hose. Your options inside were milk, tap water and maybe juice (if you were allowed to drink it outside of breakfast). I had 4 sisters, so we would have killed a jug of OJ in about 5 minutes if mom let us have it at will. But now there is the Capris Sun, the bane of my parental existence. Convenient for the kid? Yes. Convenient for me? Sure, I can concede that. The reason I hate Capris Suns is seven-fold. Just kidding there’s like three. I just wanted to say, seven-fold.
I hate stabbing Capri Suns. It seriously takes practice on par with the 10,000 repetitions concept of mastering a skill. When my son came to the age where Capri Suns were appropriate, I couldn’t stab one properly to save my life. It went all the way through, it squirted out the top, it squirted out the hole, the hole wouldn’t puncture-which feels an awful like what I suspect stabbing someone feels like. I’m a pro now, but damn, it took a lot of practice. Maybe if you’re younger than I and retain an acumen for Capri Sun stabbing, you’ll fair better.
You cannot contain a Capri Sun. It has a mind of its own. You may dictate: this Capri Sun shall not pass from this kitchen. Your child probably wants to comply, but they can’t. The Capri Sun alters their brain chemistry so that they disobey and wander into their rooms or the living room, on your couch, or worse, on your mother’s new couch. You know, the woman that already raised her kids and had her things destroyed, so now she actually has nice stuff. Oh well, that’s what she gets for putting the mother’s curse on me. Karma is a Capri Sun on your new white sofa.
Disposal of them
Why is it that Capri Suns are incapable of making it into the trash? Why? I ask you! Because they have made it into my son’s room (and I have given up the fight), they lie about like silver shining beacons of my failed ability to keep them from leaving the kitchen. And I know he did not finish the damn thing so its remnants have been freshly squeezed into my carpet, sofa, his clothes. I don’t care if your child is 2 or 13, they are incapable of finishing a Capri Sun. They have to leave an ounce or two that will squirt all over when stepped on, sat upon or casually glanced at.
My vehicle bears the brunt of this Capri Sun napalm. It’s a wasteland of Capri Sun mortar shells and damp spots all around my vehicle. My mom got in my dirty car over the weekend and chastised me for how messy it was. She asked if I recalled ever having a dirty car, even with all five of us kids. She didn’t have to raise kids with Capri Suns! She doesn’t know what I’ve been through. Times have changed. The weapons of mass destruction come in silver pouches and yellow straws, ready to destroy the homes, vehicles and the sanity of otherwise capable parents.
I buy boxes of Capri Suns like I used to buy cases of beer. My kid can seriously pound them out. I think they have become like baby wine.
They just can’t relax after school until they’ve had a “sun”, as my toddler calls them. Like, seriously, don’t talk to me until I’ve had my Capri Sun.
I don’t even know how I’m going to go on. I guess I’ll have to wait until my kids have grown up and moved out before I buy that white couch. Then my grandkids can come visit and I’ll pretend like it’s not a big deal, when they squirt it all over. I just hope their parents have the decency to feign mortification when they do it, like I do. It’s the best I can offer my mom when we’re at her house. I’m just trying to survive the Capri Sun apocalypse.