Sweet Nothings

Published in Your Child Today
October 2004

By Gwen Moran

It's nearly Halloween once again, and I'm beginning to break out in a cold sweat. While I can sit through most of "A Nightmare on Elm Street" without blinking and have been known to call "Here, kitty-kitty" to black cats walking in my path, this time of year has me quaking in my not-yet-broken-in Ugg boot knock-offs. It's not witches, ghouls or ghosts that scare me as we get closer to October 31. It's that bag of Twix bars that are calling my name from the kitchen cupboard.

More than once, that talking candy has convinced me to have "one more piece," until our trick-or-treat supply hit rock bottom, nearly forcing us to hand out the cans of peas, baked beans and water chestnuts lurking in the back of the pantry. As I munch on bite-sized Milky Ways, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Hershey bars with almonds, I picture my dentist, who is breathing a sigh of relief that I'll soon be in to contribute my share to the down payment on his new BMW.

Try as I might, I haven't been able to find a suitable alternative to stocking up on the sweet stuff. The year that we handed out low-fat granola bars, our house got egged, so we're not going to try that again. And, of course, handing out healthy snacks, like apples or raisins, is enough to send the Neighborhood Watch S.W.A.T. team to your doorstep, where they force you to read "Trick-or-Treating for Dummies," especially the chapter on giving out nothing but hermetically-sealed candy.

My Weight Watchers leader suggested buying treats that I don't like to give out to costumed kids knocking at the door. That doesn't work because they end up not liking the candy either, and I find myself stuck with a salad bowl full of Smarties - so, I eat them. The only thing more guilt-inducing than eating too many pieces of candy is eating too many pieces of candy that you hate.

Of course, you could say that I'm building up my strength for the long evening ahead: Wrestling a hyperactive toddler into the costume that she now despises, hearing "I have to go potty" after the final zipper has been zipped on four layers of clothing, dragging 22 pounds of candy and 34 pounds of sugared-up fairy princess around the neighborhood ... that's the real "Nightmare on Elm Street." One more chocolate bar might make the situation just a little more bearable.

Pass the candy, please.