Friday, March 03, 2006

One Big Mac, Please, With a Side of Guilt.

Last night I went to the house to do a few things when I realized it was almost 7 and I had not eaten anything since lunchtime. At first I had the totally stupid thought of finishing what I was doing and then getting a burger on the way home. This was stupid because I only had ten dollars on me and I could not possibly take food home and torture my children by eating it if I did not have the same thing for them. It didn't matter that they all had dinner an hour and a half before, there is some unwritten rule somewhere that it is possibly the worst of all the mother eat anything that they do not also have to eat.

I think of all the times they bring in a bag of goodies ,plop down on the couch and stuff their precious little faces with sugar in various forms. The don't share, cause it is THEIR'S. The rule doesn't go both ways. If I walked into the house with a bag of sugary treats and claimed it was just MINE, I shutter to thing what could happen. There would be shock, horror on their faces, whining, kicking, screaming, and shouts of "NO FAIR!"

Being a mom means you have to lock yourself into the bathroom to eat the snickers that you bought at the store and carefully packed into the bottom of your purse, with extra care to make sure it was not visible if someone happened to see your purse unzipped for 2 seconds. You long for their bedtime so you can have a cup of hot cocoa or tea and not have to make five more with toast, cause, you know, "MOM, can you make toast with it tooooooooooo?? Pleaseeeeeeeeeeee!!??!!".

You literally become a closet eater. Not only do you use an actual closet, but any door with a lock will do and the car is an excellent place to treat yourself to something without the hassle of being brought in for questioning. Every so often you will make the fatal mistake of leaving a wrapper in the car, to which an investigation will be started with "WHO had a candybar???" You didn't get ME one???".

I have to run to the bank later and PMS is demanding me to make a pitstop for a secret treat that I will gobble down before I hit the last turn going up my hill. And, by the way, all those wrappers at the bottom of my hill that some no good litterbug just threw out on the pavement...I know nothing about them.


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