Eating all the junk food.
I was feeling rather proud of myself over Christmas.
I didn't eat too much junk. I was ever-conscientious of not desecrating my temple (because that's what conscientious people do...).
So, when the holidays passed I was rather smug.
And that smugness kept me going strong until I found the 40 lbs of rocky road fudge I had made and had forgotten about in the box freezer in the garage. And I ate it. All.
I kept pieces of it in my pocket and would eat them quickly, hardly enjoying them because I had to eat them fast enough so that I didn't have to share with the little people.
Because rocky road fudge is a sacred thing that shouldn't be cast before unappreciative children with quick metabolisms.
Between bites and swallows, the kids would zoom into the kitchen with their questions and concerns and would stop mid-sentence, sniffing the air.
"Do you have chocolate?" They would accuse.
I would mutely stare at them, refusing to open my mouth to answer, and could feel the chocolate melt and begin its slow slide down my throat into my welcoming stomach, my taste buds desperately grasping after the marshmallows and nuts fruitlessly.
"Maaahhhmmm! What's in your mouth!?" They would press.
"Dhont whorry abou et," I managed, slurping in my drool.
Once the fudge was all gone, I wiped my brow, content that I had 1) valiantly finished all the fudge, sparing everyone else and 2) had gotten rid of it all in a timely manner.
I then made the mistake of stepping on the scale in my bathroom, and between gasping sobs promised myself that I would strictly eat barley sprouts and wheat germ the rest of my days.
That lasted as long as it took to go on my next shopping trip to the grocery store. And it began all over again.
Now, Jeremy is usually the sensible one, eating fruit as a dessert, but I have long since corrupted him. So last week when we were having the crappiest of all weeks Jeremy declared that we needed to go to the store and buy as much junk as possible. I couldn't say no, since the scriptures say to be easily entreated (or was it treated? Treats? Yes, treats. 11th commandment: Thou shalt make and eat tasty treats.).
The treats have lasted us days. And days.
So, yesterday for breakfast I decided that we should eat the rest of it to get it out of our systems.
Normally I would protest having such a breakfast, but this was an emergency, and the kids thought it was fun having gummy worms and root beer that early in the morning (or ever, since Idon't like to share care about their health).
Jeremy, in an effort to be fair, divided up the spoils into five bowls, while the kids ran around the room squee-ing. The smell of sugar and tator tots filled the room, and all pupils dilated.
The noise factor multiplied by 56,000,000,000,000,000,000 % as the sound of wrappers being torn collided with maniacal giggles, general glee and the sizzle of small, cylindrical "potatoes" in the oven.
The frenzy lasted about 3 minutes and the kids, save Leah, ran out of the room.
Leah stood on the middle of the kitchen floor, her head cocked slightly to the side, her eyes heavy. She held a dishtowel in one hand (her new comfort object) and a white, plastic bowl in the other for some unknown reason. A tiny, open-mouthed frown formed on her little, pink lips.
"I throw up...feel sick..." she managed, shuddering a little.
Ah...now the bowl made sense. (We live by the Scout motto: Be prepared and carry a bowl just in case.)
I nodded in satisfaction, and watched as Leah shuffled slowly from the room muttering, "Throw up...sick..."
Now, before you think I'm a bad parent, I will tell you that I fed my children soup that night for dinner, and soup, as you know, cancels out everything.
So, I felt completely justified today when we did it all over again, because I had missed some of the junk from the day before.
It wasn't as satisfying today, though.
I looked at the strawberry rhubarb pie Jeremy had picked out at the store, and cut myself a slice.
Creepy Dara from the darkside of my brain looked at the slice I had cut. She carefully picked it up with the pie spoon thingy, lifted it towards the green, plastic plate on the counter and then, in a moment of unhinged psychosis, flung it violently onto the counter, sending pinkish goop all over the place.
Jeremy, who has strong feelings about strawberry rhubarb pie, jumped up when Creepy Dara sliced another piece of pie, a wild look on her face, and grabbed the pie spoon thingy, and lifted the pie from reach.
He thought he had won.
But then Creepy Dara remembered that there were ice cream bars in the freezer.
CD brought them into the house, and laid them out next to each other on the counter. Her first thought was to just push them all into the sink, but CD grabbed the steak knife Jeremy had left on the counter after cutting pieces of cheese.
*STABSTABSTABSTAB*
"Dara, STAHHHP!" Jeremy exclaimed, laughing as he grabbed the knife from my hand.
Creepy Dara retreated to her corner, muttering.
The kids, smelling chocolate, all ran into the kitchen and lined up at the counter.
"The ice cream has holes in it!" They exclaimed.
"That's 'cause mommy stabbed them all with a knife," Josh informed them, licking the dripping ice cream off his hands.
Eva's face scrunched up.
"Why?" She asked, incredulously. Josh shrugged, dragging his long tongue down his arm in an effort to capture the escaping chocolate.
You'll understand someday, Eva, when Creepy Eva's egg hatches.
So, we ate it all. All the junk food.
The only problem is that now we only have the healthy food left that we bought a long time ago.
Jeremy looked at the zombie oranges in our fruit basket. He grimaced and said, "I think we need to start over..."
No, silly Jeremy. Creepy Dara will find a use for those later...
I didn't eat too much junk. I was ever-conscientious of not desecrating my temple (because that's what conscientious people do...).
So, when the holidays passed I was rather smug.
And that smugness kept me going strong until I found the 40 lbs of rocky road fudge I had made and had forgotten about in the box freezer in the garage. And I ate it. All.
I kept pieces of it in my pocket and would eat them quickly, hardly enjoying them because I had to eat them fast enough so that I didn't have to share with the little people.
Because rocky road fudge is a sacred thing that shouldn't be cast before unappreciative children with quick metabolisms.
Between bites and swallows, the kids would zoom into the kitchen with their questions and concerns and would stop mid-sentence, sniffing the air.
"Do you have chocolate?" They would accuse.
I would mutely stare at them, refusing to open my mouth to answer, and could feel the chocolate melt and begin its slow slide down my throat into my welcoming stomach, my taste buds desperately grasping after the marshmallows and nuts fruitlessly.
"Maaahhhmmm! What's in your mouth!?" They would press.
"Dhont whorry abou et," I managed, slurping in my drool.
Once the fudge was all gone, I wiped my brow, content that I had 1) valiantly finished all the fudge, sparing everyone else and 2) had gotten rid of it all in a timely manner.
I then made the mistake of stepping on the scale in my bathroom, and between gasping sobs promised myself that I would strictly eat barley sprouts and wheat germ the rest of my days.
That lasted as long as it took to go on my next shopping trip to the grocery store. And it began all over again.
Now, Jeremy is usually the sensible one, eating fruit as a dessert, but I have long since corrupted him. So last week when we were having the crappiest of all weeks Jeremy declared that we needed to go to the store and buy as much junk as possible. I couldn't say no, since the scriptures say to be easily entreated (or was it treated? Treats? Yes, treats. 11th commandment: Thou shalt make and eat tasty treats.).
The treats have lasted us days. And days.
So, yesterday for breakfast I decided that we should eat the rest of it to get it out of our systems.
Normally I would protest having such a breakfast, but this was an emergency, and the kids thought it was fun having gummy worms and root beer that early in the morning (or ever, since I
Jeremy, in an effort to be fair, divided up the spoils into five bowls, while the kids ran around the room squee-ing. The smell of sugar and tator tots filled the room, and all pupils dilated.
The noise factor multiplied by 56,000,000,000,000,000,000 % as the sound of wrappers being torn collided with maniacal giggles, general glee and the sizzle of small, cylindrical "potatoes" in the oven.
The frenzy lasted about 3 minutes and the kids, save Leah, ran out of the room.
Leah stood on the middle of the kitchen floor, her head cocked slightly to the side, her eyes heavy. She held a dishtowel in one hand (her new comfort object) and a white, plastic bowl in the other for some unknown reason. A tiny, open-mouthed frown formed on her little, pink lips.
"I throw up...feel sick..." she managed, shuddering a little.
Ah...now the bowl made sense. (We live by the Scout motto: Be prepared and carry a bowl just in case.)
I nodded in satisfaction, and watched as Leah shuffled slowly from the room muttering, "Throw up...sick..."
Now, before you think I'm a bad parent, I will tell you that I fed my children soup that night for dinner, and soup, as you know, cancels out everything.
So, I felt completely justified today when we did it all over again, because I had missed some of the junk from the day before.
It wasn't as satisfying today, though.
I looked at the strawberry rhubarb pie Jeremy had picked out at the store, and cut myself a slice.
Creepy Dara from the darkside of my brain looked at the slice I had cut. She carefully picked it up with the pie spoon thingy, lifted it towards the green, plastic plate on the counter and then, in a moment of unhinged psychosis, flung it violently onto the counter, sending pinkish goop all over the place.
Jeremy, who has strong feelings about strawberry rhubarb pie, jumped up when Creepy Dara sliced another piece of pie, a wild look on her face, and grabbed the pie spoon thingy, and lifted the pie from reach.
He thought he had won.
But then Creepy Dara remembered that there were ice cream bars in the freezer.
CD brought them into the house, and laid them out next to each other on the counter. Her first thought was to just push them all into the sink, but CD grabbed the steak knife Jeremy had left on the counter after cutting pieces of cheese.
*STABSTABSTABSTAB*
"Dara, STAHHHP!" Jeremy exclaimed, laughing as he grabbed the knife from my hand.
Creepy Dara retreated to her corner, muttering.
The kids, smelling chocolate, all ran into the kitchen and lined up at the counter.
"The ice cream has holes in it!" They exclaimed.
"That's 'cause mommy stabbed them all with a knife," Josh informed them, licking the dripping ice cream off his hands.
Eva's face scrunched up.
"Why?" She asked, incredulously. Josh shrugged, dragging his long tongue down his arm in an effort to capture the escaping chocolate.
You'll understand someday, Eva, when Creepy Eva's egg hatches.
So, we ate it all. All the junk food.
The only problem is that now we only have the healthy food left that we bought a long time ago.
Jeremy looked at the zombie oranges in our fruit basket. He grimaced and said, "I think we need to start over..."
No, silly Jeremy. Creepy Dara will find a use for those later...
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