In Case of a Snow Storm

My parents are visiting.  And my father is notorious for his sweet tooth.  He's where I got mine.  I thought the amount of sugar we ate was normal growing up, until I went out in the world and realized not every family had candy drawers in every room.  When I visit home I like to play a little game.  I try to find a place in the house that is the furthest amount of steps away from something sweet.  3 steps to the bowl of jelly beans, 5 steps from the jar of mini Snickers, and then the goldmine drawer with a stash of marshmallow Peeps.  

When you have such a powerful tooth; however, you need to consume sugar on the road.  So before my father goes out for a hike, or gets in the truck for a trip to town he fills his pockets, "You know, in case we get stuck in a snow storm."  That's important in Wyoming when the winds can bring a storm out of nowhere in January.  Not as likely while visiting us in Sausalito in March.  But still.

I learned from my dad, but I like to think I've evolved from his selections.  Before we head out to play, I always make sure we have provisions: some cheese, an apple, oatmeal raisin cookies, oranges.  You know, sensible mom snacks.  Fuel.  It only took my father being in town  1/2 an hour before he was calling Jack over to his stash.  We were headed out to the park, and my dad started corrupting him.  "Come here kid, got something to show you."  Jack, ever obedient went over to my dad to investigate.  "You got pockets?  Good, open up."  

And this is where we pause, to debate how best to address this moment.  Ignore? Encourage? Run screaming, "NOOOO" as I dive Charlie's Angels-esque to protect my son from the gummy worms and m&m's I know lurk in that bag?  

I love sugar myself, I'm incredibly indulgent with it.  I allow Jack to eat sugar because I believe forbidding it is dangerous.  We eat plenty of dessert.  BUT, and here's the big BUT. I am picky about how and when he gets that sugar.  We eat dessert after a good dinner.  I try not to use candy as a leverage for good behavior.  And, we don't eat a lot of what I would consider JUNK sugar.  If we are eating candy, it better be good.  It should be delicious.  We don't waste it on wax and corn syrup. (Unless we are on the last leg of the long road trip and the Seven Eleven is our only hope of survival) Oh Lord.  We'll get back to all that later.  Back to the story.

I choose my usual default when faced by similar situations:  Look at my mother, roll my eyes and say, "This is going to end very badly for me.  When you two leave, I'll have to take him to detox."  Because I really parent most often through passivity, procrastination, and blaming my parents for the way my kids are turning out.  It seems to work for me.  

So, out the door we trudge.  Jack barely able to make it through the door as his shorts are falling down around his knees. His pockets are weighted down with licorice, gummy fruit and M&M's.  

We walk about a block, and my dad teaches Jack how to start using his candy as he walks.  "Jack, time for some fuel."  He pulls out a licorice rope and says, "See, get something out of your pocket."  Jack, as always is obedient, and as he pops a few M&M's I see his face change.  He hasn't seen my father in over a hear, but my dad has completely won him over.  Poppa John is his hero. 

So, I decide to watch.  I would say I was observing to see how Jack would react, like I'm doing clinical research on kids and food.  But really, I just don't want to start a fight with my dad his first day here.  And little Jack surprises me.  While we are at the park he follows my dad's lead, and stops occasionally for "fuel", but he's more interested in making my mother kick the ball, or watching his shadow to size up his swing with the ball.  And when we get home that night, I check his pockets while he gets on his PJs.  Like a good picky eater, he didn't finish his plate - or that is his pockets - I find a few smashed M&M's.   While I basked in the glow of this tiny victory I was reminded that I"m the one with the problem.  I ate the m&m's.  Shit.