I’m working on my positive thinking.
My new glasses are still not ready. Laundry is threatening to take over my home. One child started to disrobe at the Dollar Store this afternoon, and the other one has started saying, “Whatever!” in response to anything I say that doesn’t reinforce her need to be Queen of the Universe. Despite my fervent prayers for the six tons of leaves in my yard to perhaps just blow elsewhere, the task of yard clean-up is still waiting for me to get a grip and grab a rake, already.
Our neighbor met me at the bus stop this afternoon, bulging bags in hand. She was kind enough to make some goodie bags up for the kids, saying that she wanted to make sure they got some candy that was safe for Monkey. I was touched by her thoughtfulness. At worst, some people seem to think severe nut allergies are invented by overprotective parents; and at best, most people are bewildered as to why that excludes 90% of popular chocolate candy from being safe. (Although many of your favorite candy bars don’t contain peanuts, they are manufactured on shared equipment and have “may contain” warnings.) When the bus arrived and the girls ran over, she added, “I threw a couple of Reese’s cups into Chickadee’s bag, too.”
“Oh, I don’t really even like peanut butter,” Chickadee demurred.
“Try again, Chickadee,” I prompted.
“Thank you, Mrs. Neighbor!” she obliged.
“Better.” I tickled her under her chin as we headed for home. “You know,” I said, “you probably do like peanut butter. It tastes a lot like the sunbutter we eat all the time. Would you like to try one of the Reese’s cups?”
“Nah,” she replied. “I had one at Daddy’s once. I didn’t really like it. You can have them.”
And that’s when it dawned on me. Halloween’s on Sunday. I don’t buy foods that aren’t safe for Monkey; I don’t want them in the house. Much of what he receives trick-or-treating isn’t safe, and I buy the contraband from him for a nickel a candy. Chickadee also has the option of selling me some of her candy (just because she hates it when he has more money than she does). He works (ha!) hard collecting the candy, and I pay him real money for it. So I don’t just throw it away; that would be wrong on so many levels.
I eat it. Because I don’t want to be wasteful. It’s a matter of principle, really.
Halloween’s on Sunday. I have plenty of nickels. And soon I’ll have Reese’s cups and Butterfingers and all manner of yummy candy that I never buy anymore.
If that’s not a half-full glass, I don’t know what is.