Dreaming In Color

I am a dreamer. Well, yes, I have hopes for the future for myself and our family, but what I really mean is that I dream well. Vividly in fact.

My husband thinks it’s the most amazing thing that I have the ability to wake up after a dream and be able to recall the most detailed information about it.

This is actually a new skill I have acquired. I have a hard time remembering things from my childhood, so much so that my sisters and brother are starting to wonder whether I was abducted by an alien in my formative years. They remember EVERYTHING. I don’t, so I have to believe what they tell me.

But I remember the people, places, colors, feelings and even smells from a dream.

I have to think it has something to do with the sleep deprivation that comes with motherhood. If you ever had a newborn baby you’re shaking your head right about now remembering those long nights where nothing — no pacifier, rocking, pacing, singing, crying (you, not the baby) — would help. Finally, after several days of this, you’d crash for what seems like four hours only to be awakened a mere 5 minutes later. And then you repeat it the next night and so on and so on.

That happened with my daughter. She was a terrible sleeper and I breast-fed her until she was about 11 months old. And me being a lazy breastfeeder, well, she was in our bed A LOT. She’s now 5, but she still wakes up every night and comes into our bed. I have not had a full night’s sleep in almost 9 years. My son is almost 9 in case you were confused.

So this dream thing must be because I sleep lightly and therefore my dreams must be close to the surface. And since they are that close when I wake up, I remember them.  I suppose I could take an Ambien if I really wanted more sleep, but I kind of like this dream thing. It keeps my life interesting. I wake up with lots of questions about what the dreams are supposed to be telling me.

Have you ever consulted a dream guide to see what a dream might mean? It’s actually pretty interesting.

Take last night for instance. I dreamt about meeting Barack Obama in a bathroom. Now this could mean a lot things: My first interpretations — he’s full of you know what, politicians stink, our economy is in the toilet, country is in the crapper. yada yada. 

Actually I looked on a dream dictionary website to see what it meant. To dream of a bathroom  apparently means I am prone to frivolity and light-heartedness. Not sure what Obama would be doing there, so I like my interpretation better.

And the other day, I dreamt about a mom I know from my daughter’s preschool. In my dream, she bared her stomach and asked me to punch her because she had abs of steel. So I did, and they were.

I woke up with a big question. What the heck does that mean? Then I ran into her that day and figured it out. She’s a very put together mom of three, very strong and I admire her a great deal. Hence abs of steel.

I once had a dream that I was best friends with Britney Spears. That one, well, who knows. One of my friends I told about it was convinced there was no message. I was just crazy and needed another glass of wine before bed.

A most vivid dream of late was one that had me driving my Jeep out of control all through a town missing every stopped car, every obstacle in my way. I couldn’t steer, nothing worked yet here I was maneuvering it out of harm’s way. I managed to do this all the way up a very large hill and thankfully the car eked out one last burst forward and came to rest on the top of a cliff. I then looked down and saw that my car keys were in my lap. Very telling, wouldn’t you say?

I didn’t really get it until my husband pointed it out — the keys in your lap? Duh. Oh.

It could also mean that life as I know it is really controlled chaos.

Another one I had a while back stumped me at first: I was with a group of people, some friends, some strangers. We were at the beach and I walked to the edge of a stone wall, at a corner, that dropped down into the water. All of the people had jumped in. But I stood there, too afraid to go. I smelled the salt water, it was dark and scary and I was sure it was too deep for me. They called to me and said “You need to come in!” Finally, I jumped in. And the water was only up to my waist and I realized I was scared for nothing.

Any guesses as to what that means?

Looking back on it, it was so simple: I found out two days later that I was pregnant. Water is the symbol for life and me standing at the edge not sure about it was likely a subconscious fear of the unknown about having a baby. Is this so Psychology 101?

Anyway, I am not into that New Age aura stuff, and won’t bore you with more of my crazy dream stories. But dreams are pretty interesting if you can remember them to try to figure out the puzzle of what our psyche tells us while we sleep.

So if you are like me and can remember them in detail, it would be a neat exercise to write them down and then see what they may represent. You just never know.

Stephenie Meyer, the author of the Twilight saga, conjured up Bella and Edward in a dream, how they looked, what they were talking about. How a Mormon mother dreamt of a 100 year-old teenage vampire and his human love interest is beyond me.

But hey. Who am I to judge? My dreams are nutty, too. Perhaps one day one of my vivid dreams will become a huge bestseller and blockbuster movie. Although I am not sure that Britney Spears as my BFF or Barack Obama in the bathroom would make a bestseller, but I’ll let you know.

Happy Dreaming.


Pride and Prudishness

I consider myself pretty lucky to be on the receiving end of bags of hand-me-down clothes for my daughter. One friend, who comes like a thief in the night, drops bags of clothes on my front porch. They appear there usually with out me knowing she’s even come. And when I say they are gently used, that is the understatement of the year. Some still have tags on them. And the ones that don’t are in such good condition that perhaps they’ve been worn once.

There are beautiful clothes in these bags. Gymboree outfits, Janie and Jack, Hannah Andersson, you name it. My little girl is a fashion plate and I can thank my friends for it.

Another good friend of mine also gives me her daughter’s gently used stuff. And I am convinced that I must have missed out on the laundry lesson they got. The whites are really white. The colors bright and nary a stain dons any of these items. Maybe I need to rethink my own way of doing laundry. I probably should sort the whites from the darks, right?

In any case, on one occasion my friend invited me over to go through some bags of clothes her daughter specifically picked out for my daughter. She told me to take what I wanted and the rest she would give to another friend whose little girl was about the same age.

Lots of adorable things. I picked through and took a pretty nice stack of items for my girl.

With the clothing strewn all over the floor, my friend picked up a pretty bathing suit and said that my daughter would love it.

I told her that yes, it was cute, adorable even, but my daughter would not be wearing it or any bikini until she is at least 12.

My friend looked at me as if I had six heads.

“Why?” she asked.

My reason is simple. I don’t believe a bikini belongs on my little girl. Tankini? Sure. But a two piece, midriff bearing, hardly covering anything bikini? Nope.

Not going there.

In the summer, we are at the beach. A lot. My mom still lives near the shore and we visit. Plus my own family usually takes to the beach for a summer vacation in Maine or Cape Cod.

And I spend a lot of time happily planted in my beach chair on the sand people-watching.

There are little girls, from age 10 all the way down to 1 year olds, who are wearing bikinis that barely cover them up. They are digging in the sand, playing in the waves, doing little girl things like that. And from my vantage point, wearing a bikini is just not conducive to that kind of adolescent behavior. The bikini top will eventually ride up and half of her little girl chest will be exposed until her mother comes and pulls it down for her.

(Note: I have also witnessed grown women wearing a bikini that could probably fit their toddler, but that is for another day.)

More than the fact that you just simply need more sunblock, my feeling is that a little girl, at least my little girl, needs to stay little for as long as possible. Because one day, earlier now than ever, you will wake up and your once little daughter will be sporting boobs and curves and be wearing low rider jeans and maybe even thong underwear.

They grow up too fast s’all I’m sayin’.

12? Maybe 13.

A bikini isn’t evil or anything, I realize it is just a fashion statement. (Unless of course you count that company that added extra padding to the top of their toddler bikinis. Can you say inappropriate? They should be so ashamed that they ever thought of that.)

And if you are comfortable with your little girl wearing one, then so she will.

But for my little girl, a one piece or tankini is going to be on her until she can afford to buy her own. And I for one am hoping that it is not until MUCH MUCH later than 12.

This one is just as cute as the bikini, no?

I wore what they called a “two piece” back in the day. I remember it well. It was a hand-me-down from my sister that I could NOT wait to get my hands on. It was red, had two triangles outlined in white on the top, and the bottom was red and white striped. It came up above my belly button and was clearly not a “bikini” in the true sense of the word. But it was the bomb.

But I had to wait until I was 10 before I could wear it. My mom was so behind the times, right? I waited for a very long time, following both of my sisters’ introduction into the world of bikinis, for my own. And once I started wearing them, well I decided they weren’t for me. I am and will continue to be a one-piece or tankini girl. My sisters not so much. They like a good bikini as much as the next person. Just not me.

So thinking back, I thought my mother was old-fashioned. But clearly we agree on this one thing. I may be old-fashioned like her, prudish even. But I am sticking to my guns on this one.

Yesterday I received a CWD Kids catalog in the mail and my daughter, fashionista that she is, immediately reached for it. She flipped through the pages while eating her lunch, eyes wide with hope of a new outfit.

She pointed to the cute clothes and gushed with delight. Then she pointed to a red-white-and-blue bikini clad toddler. “I want that one,” she said.

“Not until you are 12,” I replied.

“Why mommy?

“Because Mommy thinks that bathing suit is too big-girlish for you.”

I waited for the screaming that I was sure would follow.

But it didn’t.

“Okay,” she said and perused on. She pointed to the same red-white-and blue pattern in a one piece and said “How about this one?”

I just love her.

Perhaps she will always be this agreeable.

So… Am I too prudish or on the money? I’d love to know what you all think.

Right on Target

I just got home from Target.

I don’t know why I go there. It feels less like a shopping trip and more like I have gone on a bender.

I can not control myself in that store.  I just go down aisle after aisle and throw more stuff into my big red cart. I leave that store with a receipt a mile long and a conscience racked with the guilts.

I spent HOW much?

Honestly, I think they created that store just for people like me. Us crazy folk who can not control their buying impulses for their life. Bright lights, happy people, lots to buy. I think that is the marketing behind the red bullseye — it hypnotizes those weak people like me, draws them in and then, BAM! You have become another willing target for them to suck you into buying a boat load of crap.

They see me coming, they do, that is why they put all that stuff I didn’t even know I had to have right in front of me.

Every step I take, something beckons me.

I am a really cute ruffle-y sweater and would look fabulous on you! Buy me! Throw me in your cart! Add another color too for it would look stunning! Add a tee-shirt! Throw in some socks, and that cute glittery belt. To Die For!

Oh and those cute sparkly ballerina flats? You MUST buy them for your daughter. She would adore you for life! She’d be the talk of preschool, she would!

Up n Up Hand soap, just $1.79, I am a steal! Throw me in!! I need friends, come on! Another fragrance, too!

That cute mini rake and shovel set would get your son helping in the garden! Try it! I am only $19.99!

I am not really hearing these voices. That would be weird.

But something is making me throw unneeded crap into my cart. Convenience?  Excessive consumerism? Idiocracy?

It’s just that Target has everything. And it’s right smack dab in front of me. And well the cart is so big and fits all the stuff I am throwing in. If not today, someday I might need this. So in it goes. I am not a hoarder, really. American Pickers would not find anything worth it in my basement, unless there is a market for the sturdy white and red bullseye shopping bags.

Even if I had a list, though, I would still not be able to stick to it.

I have tried only going there for the pantry and laundry items.

So in addition to an 18-pack of paper towels, diaper wipes, a 9-pack super sized toilet paper, kitchen storage bags, a 40-lb bag of dog food, toothpaste, deodorant and shampoo, I would leave Target with a new shower curtain and bath rug I don’t need, new lunch coolers I don’t need, 10 little 99 cent scrapbook embellishments I don’t need (and new paper too), a pack of pencils that were $1.00, a new tennis top, flip-flops, a pair of shoes for each kid, this really cute dress for my daughter, a new pair of jeans for my son and a box of Archer Farms Trail Mix.

I would then try to maneuver a now very heavy cart through the store to the checkout. I know I don’t need half of this stuff today, I tell myself, but it’s too hard to drive that cart around the store and put it all back. So I talk myself into the fact that of course I do need this, scan my card, and have a pit in my stomach all the way home.

I say it out loud. “I am so NOT ever going back there again. So not ever.”

Except a few weeks go by and then I run out of paper towels.

My husband actually cringes when he hears me say I am going to Target. He knows I can’t control myself there.

Thankfully I don’t live closer to Target. It is actually a trip that takes a good solid three hours out of my day, with drive time, shop time, return home time. Guilt time.

Well, perhaps if I look at the bright side, I can see it clearly.

If nothing else, my guilt-ridden, consumer-excessive trips to Target are my way of trying to help our faltering economy.


I’m Old Enough Now

Today, we were running late. Again.

The 8:30 start comes fast in the morning and we are perennial late-comers to my daughter’s preschool. Her brother’s bus comes at 8:40 so we usually say goodbye through my rolled down window as I zoom down the street to her school hoping to not be more than 10 minutes late.

Since my husband works most days from here, after us girls head out, he and my son have some good old-fashioned male bonding time in the driveway until that big yellow bus comes and takes him to off to his school, also just a few minutes down the street.

But this morning, my husband’s conference call ran over and my son really wanted to take the bus. “Please mom?” His very large blue eyes and almost 9-year-old face pleaded with me.

With a very large gulp, I left him in the driveway alone. I told him not to talk to strangers and please wave to me if you see my car and then I pulled away and drove my daughter to school.  I realize he would literally only be in the driveway by himself for about 3 minutes before his bus came to get him. And maybe his dad would be able to get there before then. But I was still very apprehensive and drove silently down my street with a lot of anxiety.

I quickly dropped my daughter off, got back in my car and was about to go across the street to his school and wait for his bus to make damn sure he got off. Then I thought, what if he sees me and gets embarrassed? What if he is mad and thinks I won’t let him grow up? (Which I certainly don’t want too, but that’s not the point.)

So I sat at an intersection where I knew his bus would pass. I just needed to know. As it passed by, I saw the back of his  head. He was busy talking with friends, probably secretly screaming with excitement that he is a big kid now and waited for the bus without a grownup. 

Thank goodness.

I knew he was safe. All grown up and safe.

When I got home, I found my husband in the kitchen making another pot of coffee. I asked if he got out to the bus in time. He did, he said, but our son told him to go back in with: “Mommy said it’s okay for me to wait for the bus by myself. I am old enough now.”

The lump came into my throat and my eyes welled up.

I do know he is old enough now. But I don’t like it. Not one single bit.

Today it’s the bus stop. Tomorrow he’ll be off to college.

I realize that at some point I will have to let go. Just as I am sure my own mother had to let go of me.

But he’s my little boy.

The same little boy who made me cry the day he was born because I took one look at him and realized I was a goner. I was the mother of a son. A beautiful baby boy who would bring me joy and make me tear out my hair at the same time. The boy who would make me laugh one minute and make my head spin around with frustration the next. This boy would bring tears to my eyes and swell my heart to bursting.

This giant replica of his father, with his too big feet, long gangly arms, a beautiful and mischeivous smile, easy-going spirit. He is growing up so fast. Time is flying by.

So today I won’t tell him I secretly spied on his bus ride. I will let him have that feeling of freedom. That feeling that he can do more by himself without his parents hovering.

But I can’t promise I won’t spy on him again. It’s a scary world and he’s still just a boy. He can wait for the bus “alone” though only if his parents are looking out the window making sure all is clear. We will let him venture out a little farther each day.

Just a little.

Hairy Matters

This was the week of haircuts.

I finally took my five-year-old daughter for her first real salon haircut experience. I went to the salon before preschool and made an appointment for her. When I picked her up, I talked it up pretty good saying “You are going to love this!” and all that.

In we went and the stylist took her over, washed her hair and began trying to comb out the knots that resemble little villages that had taken over my daughter’s hair. I was chastised for using the kid’s 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner on her beautiful hair when I should be using real shampoo and real conditioner. Funnily enough my daughter didn’t scream bloody murder when the stylist tried to detangle. I think she saves that drama for me.

My daughter wanted a short haircut and bangs. Since she is due to perform in an upcoming ballet recital, I thought it safer to keep the hair long enough for a ponytail. She rolled her eyes and said “Fine.” (My daughter, not the stylist.)

And I told her I am drawing the line at bangs. She has the same crazy cowlick and wavy hair I do and bangs are a nightmare without a blow dryer and flat-iron. My own stylist can’t even settle my cowlick down. And I pay her big bucks. So I told her no bangs on my watch. Thankfully, the stylist concurred.

So the stylist rounded out the front, kind of angled it a bit and gave my girlie the most beautiful haircut I could imagine. While she was getting the blow dry, my daughter peeked out from under her hair with little smiles and an occasionally she’d stick out her tongue at me. I think she meant this endearing telling me that yes, she enjoyed this experience.

After we were done and I turned over the 12 bucks (which is a STEAL) we headed home. All the way home, she moved her head around, shaking her newly coiffed hair and seemed to me that she was feeling like a million bucks. Amazing that even in a little girl, a new hair cut gives you a whole new outlook.

The next morning she woke up a little concerned.

“Is my hair still cut Mommy?” she worriedly asked.

After I reassured her, she went off to school excited to show off her new do.

Round 2: Sonny boy.

Feel free to think I am little nuts here. But I am pretty sure that the length of my son’s hair has a direct correlation to his freshness.

Oh I don’t mean his clean factor. I am talking about his new-found friend, S-A-S-S. That’s right.

Perhaps it’s just me projecting, but I don’t know. The longer my son’s hair gets, the more attitude he displays. Since he’s tall and looks a lot more like a 12-year-old than the nine years he is, I suppose with longer hair it’s easy for me to see him morph into that sassy tween.

I know I am judging and if you have an attitudeless tween boy with longer hair, please take no offense.

But I have to say the same for the buzz cut. I never liked them. They are cute on other people’s little boys. I just didn’t think my son should have one, but he REALLY wanted one when he was six. So I went with a heavy heart to the barber and said Go ahead. I starting getting really nervous when his hair was hitting the floor.

And then, there he was, peach fuzz head.

He loved it. I hated it.

And maybe it’s me projecting again, but with the hair that was lopped off went his good sense and nice manners. Yes, it could have been the age, but I think the buzz cut had something to do with it. He was a holy terror. So no more buzz cuts for this boy.

So back to the present.

We were very past due. The barber used to have a schedule where he was closed two days during the week. Never could understand it. That might have been the reason that up until yesterday, I wasn’t sure if it was Ringo Starr circa 1965 asking me for another bowl of cereal. My son looked like he could have fit right in the with Fab Four with side burns and a shag that was beginning to touch his collar.

He was wiping hair off his forehead and kept whining about wanting his hair cut off. And he was being fresh. Not anything to really get concerned over, but enough that I noticed it, then noticed his long hair and said Oh, yeah it’s time.

So off it came, 13 bucks later. But it was worth it so I could see the face of my little sunny outlook boy once again. He has a nice boy cut, short on the sides and back. A little longer in the front. More like Joe Jonas’s recent cut. Less Justin Bieber.

I even treated myself to a salon experience this week. Got the grays colored over, a highlight here and there, a nice warm glaze to go over and Voila. A new-ish me.

So, yes, it’s just hair. Nothing earth shattering about it. But an important part of life nonetheless. Happy Hump Day.

Happy Day

Yesterday I celebrated another anniversary of my 40th birthday. Okay, okay. No more beating around the bush.

I am now 44.

Seriously, where did the time go? It seems like yesterday I was just a spry and carefree 43-year-old.

My kids and husband embraced my special day and I was lavished with beautiful cards and lots of hugs. It was a great day, full of hiking and togetherness and love. Warmer weather, steak on the grill, cooked to perfection. We drank wine, they drank purple Gatorade out of wine glasses and toasted their mommy with a celebratory clink. Blissful and fun.

Funny how different birthdays seemed for my own mother when I was a kid. The mere mention of her age would send us kids to the calculator.

You are how old?

She’s always had wash n’ go salt and pepper hair. Never wanted a color and blow dryers were not an option. Mascara, no way. She’s worn the same Revlon Moondrops Peach lipstick her entire life. She never owned sneakers and I don’t remember her ever riding a bike. Her choice of music was classical. Her choice of clothes the same. She was soooo old.

She had me, the youngest of her four children, when she was, gasp, 39!

The same age I was when I had my youngest.


Even though I thought my mom was way old, I have brainwashed my son to tell me at least twice a week that I look 20. And my daughter thinks I am young and cute. Not as pretty or as young as the other preschool moms, she tells me, but I am according to her, still cute. I’ll take it.

I do still feel like I am young-er. But then I’ll catch a glimpse in the mirror and say, Oh yeah. The woman staring back at me is in her 40s.

There are little wisps of gray hair around her temples. Color doesn’t last as long anymore. And she has those worry lines above the bridge of her nose, looking like two little exclamation points.  A few wrinkles here and there, and maybe a little tired. But not too bad. Yet.

Mirrors. They don’t reflect what is inside so some days I think it’s just better to avoid them.

Mostly I feel pretty good and have no problem with getting older. I still play tennis and still hike with my husband and the kids. I still get down on the floor with the kids, ride bikes with them, play with them.

And I still laugh at the sound of a good, hearty fart.

Age is a state of mind, right? And when that state of mind starts telling you that your back hurts, your ankles are stiff and you better stop running around on your sore knee you have to tell it to shut up and leave you alone.

Many women take their 40s as a reason for reinvention. We try something new or change something or challenge ourselves further.

When I was 40, I signed up for a 39-mile marathon walk. The AVON Walk for Breast Cancer was my way of doing something different. And I got to help others to boot. My 40th birthday fell in the same year as the 10 year anniversary of my own breast cancer diagnosis. So it was a great fit.

I pushed myself hard to train for the walk, raised well over the required $1,800 and had a blast doing it with some friends who were willing to go that extra mile (or 39!) for a cause. As an aside, I highly recommend this walk. It’s an awesome girlfriends thing to do.

Other people I know have marked their 40-year milestones with some interesting things. Some went like gangbusters, others waited a bit.

One friend ran her first marathon one month into 40. One went back to school one year shy of 40. And one went back to work full-time a year into 40. Another friend of mine adopted a toddler to add to her brood of teenagers when she was well into her 40s.

It is amazing how different generations deal with getting older. We are marking milestones with things like changes and challenges. But for my own mom at least, she was always just another year older on her birthday. Since she always looked the same, (and still does at 83) we never really made any issue of her increasing age. There were no age markers other than cards, a little gift and birthday cake. Although we did throw her a shindig, much to her initial dismay, when she turned 70. (She loved the party.)

I hope to continue to at least try to grow old gracefully. Looking in the mirror aside. You can be assured I won’t have gray hair if I can help it and I will continue to shop in the junior’s section as long as I think I can pull it off. No mom jeans for me. (Though low riders are getting increasingly lower and 40-plus butt cracks are just not the same as their 20-year-old counterparts.)

I am going to smack the tennis ball as long as I can, hike as long as my legs let me, ride that bike until I forget how and attempt a few new things if I feel the need.

I hope that with each passing birthday, my family knows how huge the love I have for them continues to grow. I hope each birthday comes with the people around me knowing how dear they really are. And I hope each birthday brings with it the fact that I have at least attempted something interesting.

So, Happy Birthday to me. One more year older.

And definitely one more year wiser.

What’s Mine is Mine and I’m Not Sharing

Today I received my Girl Scout cookies and I am so not sharing. With anyone.  I am keeping these two hard-earned gorgeously green boxes of Thin Mint cookies all to myself.

You may think I am selfish (or even a tad bit gluttonous) but I am not. I am just a mom who needs her stash. And the little chocolatey mint crisp wafer dipped in more chocolatey goodness, well, I am a happy mommy when they are mine. All mine.

Now here’s the thing. My kids get special treats all the time. I spent half the winter baking, did I not? They were happy. Had lots of homemade cakes, cookies and brownies. There was Christmas and all the goodies that come with that. Then Valentine’s Day and they ate all (or most) of the treats bestowed upon them by their classmates.

My kids are not deprived of anything special or sweet.

So, one day in a moment of weakness, when I thought they were busy doing something else, I went for some chocolate and they saw me. They found me out. My secret stash of Cadbury Fruit and Nut Bars was no longer secret. And they wanted in.

I told them to beat it and under no uncertain terms were they to invade mommy’s secret candy. This was met with some fake tears and chants of “You are a mean Mommy!” But I wasn’t giving in.

At first.

Then they broke me, and before I knew it, I’d be splitting my little row of three and would hand them each one little square of that velvety milk chocolate raisin and almond concoction. I’d have the other and warn them to NEVER take mommy’s chocolate bar.

And then, on another day when I needed it the most, when 4 p.m. came around and I went secretly into my little corner kitchen cabinet, behind the spices, next to the container of salt, and behind the bottle of Tabasco Sauce, there was just an empty wrapper.

Someone did not heed my warning.

It would do no good to scream and tear my hair out or try to make the culprit confess. There would be no chocolate for this harried and tired mommy that day. I would just have to keep on keeping on. Without my chocolate fix. (Are you crying yet?)

So off to Stop n Shop I’d go for more — they are usually 10 for $10 and though I really should buy 10, it’s the principal of it and I just can’t.

I have tried to hide my chocolate in new, out of reach places. But the only person tall enough to reach that out of reach place stands defiantly in front of me while he eats my chocolate. He brings home the bacon. I can’t deny him.

So back to the Girl Scout cookies.

I am not going to share. I put them in a VERY safe hiding place. And I have already eaten a whole bunch. And they were really good. I may try to hide the second box, currently camouflaged in the back of the pantry, in the freezer, cause, well, have you ever had a frozen Thin Mint? Just so darn good it’s scary.

And the thing is, if the kids don’t find me out by Easter, I can just eat away by myself. My husband gave up sweets for Lent, so that is that and he gets none. With a special hide out for my box of cookies, I can relish in bite after bite of that minty chocolate goodness.

So you can continue to think I am a selfish, candy-hiding, half-crazed chocoholic. I can try to rationalize it by stating that every mom deserves her special little thing that makes her a happier mom. Or chocolate makes me smile. blah blah blah.

But I won’t. I am what I am and I need chocolate.