I had this thought as I secretly stuffed a third mini-Mars bar into my mouth: my daughters are going to smell chocolate on my breath. I better rinse my mouth.
That thought was followed by this more startling one: OMG, I am behaving like an alcoholic except with Halloween candy! I’m eating in secret and plotting sneaky ways to get more candy.
It’s been two weeks since my daughters came home with their pillow cases stuffed with treats, and here is my plea: PLEASE GET THIS CANDY OUT OF MY HOUSE. This holiday just makes it too easy for frantic parents to stress-eat through Daylight Savings Time and supper witching hours.
Fighting kids? Pop a mini-Mars bar. Feeling guilty because you forgot to dress your child up for Career Day at school? Chow down on bag of Doritos.
“I’m downing Coffee Crisps like a mad person,” emailed my friend. “I need to soothe my soul after yet another hour of mini tantrums and a fussy baby who refuses to nap.”
“I’ve got a C-section overhang and a bald spot on the back of my head from twisting my hair with worry,” said another exhausted mother. “Bring on the Snickers!”
When the girls were younger, the Hubster and I would plow through their candy after they went to bed. It’s for their own good, we’d say. They don’t need that much candy. They were too little to notice what we ate. The candy would be gone in a few days, and we’d get back to our healthier eating routines.
But the free-for-all is over now. The girls got more candy than ever, but they are practically using Excel spreadsheets to keep track of it. We can’t so much as look at a package of Rockets without a four fire alarm going off. And they’re making their candy last. At this rate, mini-chocolate bars and caramels will still be around torturing me at Christmas when I am taking shortbread out of the oven.
The Hubster and I got so desperate for our sugar fix that we broke open the 50-pack of mini-Mars bars two days before Halloween.
“You have to stop on the way home and get more Mars bars,” I desperately hissed to him on the phone hours before trick or treaters were set to arrive. “The girls are going to notice there are only 10 bars left!”
Shortly after, I confessed my sins to a bank teller who admitted she was having trouble keeping her hands out of the candy on her desk.
“I hear ya. I ate an entire bag of Creamy Caramels last night,” I told her.
“You did WHAT?” said my astonished eight-year-old. I forgot she was standing next to me.
“My kids are grown now, but I used to find their candy no matter where they hid it. I knew all their hiding places,” sighed the teller, as if she missed that very much.
Well, at least the Hubster and I got off scot-free for our mini-Mars bars indiscretion, I thought to myself.
“Mom, why are there two Mars bars boxes in the recycling bin?” asked my 11-year-old about a week later.
“Um, I have no idea,” I said, my face crimson.
“MOM!!” she said.
Oh, man, busted again.
“Ok. Yes. We ate the Mars bars and had to buy another box,” I said.
The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, right?
“Do you want me to be honest? Chocolate,” says the Hubster when I ask him what he wants to eat with his chicken for supper.