the candy hunter

I picked up a tired, cliche book copy of How to Listen So Your Kids Will Talk and Talk So Your Kids Will Listen at Savers the other day, and having seen many, many rave reviews for the authors’ other books, I thought, “Why not? I’m pretty good at communicating with the girls right now, but I can always prepare for the inevitable ‘someday’.”

That fleeting thought was just too much for God, or fate, or perhaps a clique of dark, impish devils who decided that my someday needed to happen immediately.

And that’s when Betsy happened. Every day there was something new she’d snuck into. Largely, it was stuff I didn’t even know existed: a package of brownies Scott had squirreled away (to surprise his wife with when the children had gone to sleep), a package of pink dipping chocolates I’d meant to give to a friend and had (as usual) totally forgotten about, a bag of brown sugar in the back of the top shelf, a box of chocolates I had saved for my VTs, a candy bar I’d hidden in the farthest reaches of the refrigerator… really, it was like living with a private investigator. A four-year-old P.I. with no moral respect for privacy at all.

I suppose all the shrieking, crying, and vain promises I’ve heard lately will be something I’ll look back on sweetly someday. Or at least with greater fondness and patience than I can muster in the present. All I know is, we spent last night and this morning letting her sneak all the candy she could find, and then letting it die a ritual death in the big black trashcan outside. I hope this is the beginning of the end of something besides my confidence in my mothering.