I went to bed sick.
Not sick, like the flu.
Sick like honey don’t move the bed
or I am going to hurl all over your face.
I’ve done it every year
since I can remember.
You would think I would have
learned my lesson
as a youngster.
But, I guess I never did.
So now I am on the other side of the
“only three pieces”
and I really should know better.
Way better.
And I guess somewhere deep down there I do.
But, apparently
my greedy little fingers don’t.
Add this to the fact
that my stomach
isn’t as tolerable as it used to be
and my bowels
bellowed through the night.
“Please don’t do this to us,”
they screamed.
“We know you know better!”
I get out of bed
and resolve to eat nothing
but dairy and fiber
for at least 24 hours
if not 2,004 whole minutes.
I sit at the kitchen table
and notice that the kids must have
eaten 12 more pieces for breakfast
and stashed 20 each in their backpacks.
They made a sizable dent.
I long for the days of larger families.
I only have 4 kids
and I need at least 7
like my mom used to have
to get rid of this candy.
How can we possibly have more candy
than all 6 of my brothers and sister and I?
I chuckle to myself
because my kids really don’t care
that I make them put all their candy in one pot,
Just like my mother used to do to me.
They protested, just like I did.
“No mom let us keep our candy in our dresser drawers.”
They didn’t fight back too strong
because secretly somewhere inside
they have the same screaming voice
like I do.
“Save us. Please!”
They ignore the voice
and they don’t protest about the shared bucket
because it’s bigger than they can remember
and they know they are still going to get
plenty of candy.
Too much candy.
I had to switch from my original choice to
a tupperware super-size bin to hold the mounds of candy.
You know, like a trough size.
I reach over and take an Almond Joy
because if I don’t start eating them now
they will never go away.
Nobody in my family eats Almond Joy,
nobody but me.
I think I should retrieve all the Lemonheads
for Sophia because they are her favorites
until I realize that Lemonheads are to Sophia
like the dark chocolate is to daddy.
They are her responsibility
in saving the family from prolonged misery.
Then I grab a glass of milk,
as quick as I can
and I try to think of somewhere safe to hide the candy
but I might as well eat the Reese’s on top
because it goes so well with a glass of milk.
The baby comes over and starts handing me
suckers of every kind.
Apparently she wants to help us all
out of our misery too.
Tootsie Pop, Blow Pop, Dum-Dum.
It’s going really well
until she asks me to open the
eyeball sucker
and when we finally pry it open
it is broken in two.
She thinks I did it on purpose
and she is so sugared
that she throws a monster size fit.
She can only get away with that
the day after Halloween.
O.k. maybe the week after Halloween.
The week before I get to my wit’s end
and chuck the rest of the candy into the garbage
a sneaky handful at a time.
Man, I should just stash it away
and save it for Valentines.
Oh, I can’t even think about Valentines right now.
It’s physically painful.
Meanwhile, I start at the 10 boxes of Candy sticks
(you know they come in little boxes of two
and resemble the old school candy cigarettes)
that Caroline had handed to me
before the suckers.
She wanted me to open them for her
and I didn’t
because I didn’t want to share.
They are my favorite.
Oh someone,
please come and rob us of our
Halloween candy.
Send it all to the kids
throughout the world
that really need it.
That way I’ll have a viable explanation
for my four children
who are guaranteed
to be sick, ornery, and inconsolable the rest of the week.
I won’t even go into what their bowels have to say to me.
Yes, I’m the child bowel whisperer.
The bowels tell me it’s a little too personal
to tell you the nitty gritties,
but I will share the part of the secret
that says upset bowels sound like bellowing cows.
Milk me. Milk me. Milk me now.
Maybe I should tell the kids that their colons
made me throw it away.
“I’m so sorry girls
but they held me hostage until I did something drastic.”
This is the first Halloween that my husband
has celebrated as a diabetic.
Well, the first year he’s been diagnosed
He was probably diabetic
every year on Halloween since he can remember.
Now I have to eat his candy too.
The woes of being a mother.
You always have to pick up any slack
for non-cooperating members of the family.
Where is that neighbor who used to give us apples?
We need about 100 of him
then I could just can it all away
for the dead of winter.
Do you know that tomorrow is my birthday?
I think it is rather cruel of God
to give me a birthday during the week of the year
when everyone is just rolling about
trying to break down the heap.
One sickening bite at a time.
Oh, cookie monster,
I can’t even think about you and your struggles right now
or I will start crying uncontrollably
and won’t be able to stop
until I discover that Elmo
is an in the closest candy addict.
Save me. Please. Save me.
I am about to butterfinger it for lunch
and who knows where I’ll be by dinner.
But no matter how far I go
or how sick I get
that blasted candy is going to be
staring at me, taunting me, calling me chicken
the rest of the month.
P.S. If you are anonymous comenter #2
from the October giveaway
on the LunchWars Post,
please make yourself known.
Maybe you can learn
from the nutrition nazi
the things that I am too dumb to incorporate.
P.P.S. I just found out that I not only got a free book
for doing that book review,
but I got paid $20.
If the book wasn’t enough to steer
me away from the candy
maybe the money
can pay for an intervention.
alice w. gold 