Saving Christmas

If you hang around the lingerie section of T.J. Maxx long enough during the holiday season, sooner or later you're bound to run into a middle aged man picking out something for his significant other.

The other night I was hunched over a cardboard box full of unisex long johns when I unwittingly found myself in the path of destruction. Specifically, as I stood up to adjust my own underpants, I noticed that a man standing at the end of the aisle was trying to determine if I could fit into the ones that he was holding in his hands. It only took a very quick look at the objects that the man was holding to realize that he was a very good judge of women's underwear sizes: I am, in fact, a Double D on top and an extra small on bottom.

"For your wife?" I asked of the functional sleepwear the man had selected.
"Yes," the man said nervously.
"She's one very lucky lady," I replied, eyeing the cheetah-print g-string and matching see through babydoll top.

I hope that my husband is as thoughtful this holiday season.

The man was tremendously relieved that I liked his present.

I was in the process of encouraging the man to make his wife's Christmas even more special by adding a toaster and subscription to Weight Watchers to his already impressive gift arsenal when the man's cell phone rang. It was an important business call, and he had to take it outside.

The man's departure gave me enough time to remove all of the animal-print nighties from the rack and shove them behind a rack of lime green Isotoner slippers.

Who says one person can't make a difference? I single-handedly saved someone's Christmas.

I'm Grateful For....

Life and life changing experiences. It's taken me awhile to get to the point where I am able to post this, but the events of the past few months have reminded me of how precious...and tenuous life is. I am grateful that Cameron is going to be okay. I am saddened that other babies are not so fortunate.


The day before Cameron was released from the NICU, I saw a baby die. It happened quickly, over the course of an hour, and it was awful... and strangely beautiful at the same time.

Cameron was in the quarantine room in the back of the NICU. On the other side of the sliding glass doors was a 26 weeker who, up until that day, had done great. She was six weeks old when she developed a bacterial infection in her intestine, causing it to perforate.

I was feeding Cameron around 11am when the alarms on the baby's incubator started going off. Initially, I didn't think anything of it, as the alarms go off on all the babies' beds all of the time. I knew that something was up, however, when the number of doctors and nurses in the room started to rapidly multiply. The doctors were amazingly calm, yet they were moving fast. The urgency on their faces was palpable.

As the minutes ticked by, it became increasingly apparent that the baby was very sick. This was confirmed when the attending physician asked the charge nurse to call the baby's parents. Normally, I don't pass up an opportunity to eavesdrop, but I wanted nothing more at that moment than to run away. I was watching some one's worst nightmare unfold, and I felt helpless, guilty, and heartsick all at the same time. Although I desperately wanted to leave the NICU, I couldn't. The doorway was blocked by 20 people. When I realized that I wasn't going to get out, I closed the doors to Cameron's room, closed my eyes and prayed for the doctors, the nurses, the parents, and most of all, for the sweet baby who was fighting for her life.

Although the door to Cameron's room was shut, it did little to muffle the sound of what was taking place five feet away. Within a short period of time, the baby's condition deteriorated to the point where doctors were forced to shift their goal from resuscitation to keeping the baby alive until her parents arrived at the hospital.

In the very long and painful minutes that followed, I watched a group of wonderful doctors and nurses take turns cradling the dying baby. I was touched by the tenderness with which they cared for this precious little girl. The room that was a few minutes earlier a flurry of activity, was now peaceful and quiet.

It all became too much. I seized upon the opportunity of a cleared room and ran out into the hallway, where I cried for a half hour. When I returned, the incubator was gone and one of the nurses was gently folding the baby's sleepers, blankets, and other personal effects and placing them into a clear plastic bag. I learned later that the baby's parents didn't make it to the hospital in time.

I didn't know what to do; there was nothing that I could do, other than give the nurse a hug and tell her that she did a good job. Afterward, I returned to Cameron's room, where I held him a little longer and a little tighter than I did before.

Cammie

Cortlen and Kellen have assimilated very nicely into their new roles as errand boys, especially when I throw in a little incentive.

"If you throw this diaper in the trash, I'll let you hold Dad's chainsaw for a minute."
"Okay!"

Camber, on the other hand, has proven to be a harder catch.
Me: "After you pick up the playroom, I"ll play Barbies with you."
Not Stupid Daughter: "I'll just play by myself."

After the old faithfuls of five year-old girl lures (free reign over my jewelry box, unrestricted access to my make-up) failed to generate any bites, I realized that desperate times called for desperate measures. For the next few days, if Camber makes it through the before school rituals without threatening to run away or actually following through with it, she gets to dress Cameron up in one of her doll outfits and call him "Cammie" for the afternoon.

English professors across the country will applaud my efforts to liberate my son from the oppressive confines of traditional gender roles. Everyone else will call my actions what they are: weird.

Happy to be Home

Someone was happy to leave the hospital.

Picture Perfect

Most companies that take kids' school pictures are known for offering high-quality photographs at reasonable prices. The studio contracted by our school district also boasts an added bonus: fantastic customer service.

My daughter's pictures were taken in mid-September. In mid-October, she came home from school with a picture envelope that contained exactly zero pictures. In place of an explanation or apology was a small sticker that read "Due to a malfunction, it will be necessary to retake your package."

The next day, I called the photo studio and spoke with a very nice woman with a smoker's cough named Pam who told me that due to a "digital mishap," my daughter's picture was accidentally deleted from the photographer's camera.

Frankly, this news came as a relief. I had seen some of my daughter's classmates' pictures and I had decided that I could do without a portrait of my daughter holding a plastic apple and leaning against a fake bookcase filled with fake books.

Pam's offer to retake my daughter's picture at the photo studio was a nice gesture, but not a viable option. The studio was several miles away and Cameron was in the NICU at the time. After explaining my situation, Pam did the right thing and offered me a full refund, which she said she would put in the mail that very afternoon.

Day 7: Pam was very glad that I called back to check on the status of things because she had misplaced my mailing address and didn't know where to send the check, which was sitting on her desk right in front of her in an envelope ready to go. Now that she had the information that she needed, she would be able to send the check right out.

Day 14: No check. Pam apologized profusely for the delay, but things were crazy busy at her photo studio and she forgot to mail the check. She was super duper grateful for my reminder phone call and told me that she would drop the check in the mail the next morning.

Day 21: Still no check. Pam swore on her ex-husband's grave that she would mail the check that day.

Day 23: Pam was out of the office, presumably mailing the check.

Day 25: Pam got a nice but firm voice message from me telling her that I expected the check by Day 27 or else I would feel justified taking my complaints to the school principal and PTA President.

Day 26: Pam called and told me that she mailed the check on Day 22.

Day 30: Pam received a phone call from me informing her of the bad news that the check that she mailed 8 days ago (and had to travel 5 miles) had yet to reach its destination. Pam informed me that it wasn't her fault that 1) the post office isn't delivering my mail 2) that I am impatient. She also wanted me to know that she is a very busy woman and doesn't have time to sit around and write checks all day. When I asked her how it is that she had time to cash my check but not write me one, we experienced a connection problem and the call was mysteriously dropped.

Day 31 (Yesterday): No check. I'm sure it will arrive today though. Tomorrow at the latest.

The Kosher Refrigerator

On every floor of the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) there is a family lounge that contains, among other things, a sofa, television set, and an assortment of refrigerators. The designated contents of each refrigerator are marked by a large sticker that reads "patient food," "parent food," "breast milk," and so on.

Of course, the refrigerator that I most wanted to get into--the one labeled "kosher food"--had a padlock. As I stared at the refrigerator, imagining what oddities it might contain, a woman about my age came into the room and opened it. I was surprised, and frankly a bit disappointed to discover that the locked refrigerator didn't contain anything weird at all. From what I could tell (and I got a good look), all it held was food.

Bypassing my normal sources of information and authority on world religions--the Internet and the hosts of The View--I decided to do something crazy and pose my questions about the refrigerator's contents to the expert right in front of me. Over the next half hour, I asked the woman a ton of questions about the kosher diet and Jewish beliefs and practices in general. As it turned out, the woman was very knowledgeable and genuinely happy to answer my questions. Go figure.

Through my conversation with the woman, I came to realize a lot of things, one of which is that each religion has its own refrigerator that people looking from the outside imagine to be filled with strange practices and bizarre and often bigoted beliefs.

I wish that people who have questions about the contents of my refrigerator would simply ask me, rather than believe others' theories about what might be in there. I can't speak for the woman at the hospital, but I feel pretty confident that she feels the same way.

Bummer!

Cameron's Immune Globulin transfusions went well, but we won't know if they were successful in building his immune system for a few weeks. This morning's blood work revealed that Cameron's hemoglobin (red blood cell) count dropped again, this time below the transfusion threshold, so he'll be getting some more vampire juice this afternoon.

Moving Day

On Sunday afternoon, Camber moved out of the house. Since the arrival of a new chore chart a few weeks ago, life in the Mathews' house has become downright unbearable: not only are all of its five year-old occupants now required to hang up their bath towels after use (the horror!), they also must use utensils and chew with their mouths closed.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the announcement that lunch would not be served to individuals who did not pick their church clothes off of the floor and hang them in their closets.

"I'm leaving here and never coming back!" my daughter shouted as she lugged a pink plastic pet carrier stuffed with living essentials down the stairs.

"We'll miss you," said my husband as he took a bite out of his sandwich.
"Can I have her room?" Cortlen asked hopefully.

The soon-to-be emancipated minor let out a long angry howl. "That's it!" she screamed. "I'm leaving now!"

"I'm thinking about making some cookies later," I said. "Do you want to wait and take some for the road?"

The traveler weighed her options. Decisions, decisions. After successfully talking a poodle Webkin and Island Princess Barbie out of the pet carrier to make room for a Tupperware container of freshly baked treats, Camber decided that nothing would be lost by delaying her departure.

P.S. I have pictures of the event, but you'll have to wait until Cameron gets out of the hospital and I can get back to my computer at home!

Cameron Update

Cameron had Round 2 of his Immune Globulin transfusion today and seems to be tolerating it well. Tomorrow's blood work will determine if he'll have another round or if we'll be done for now. CHOP is amazing. While I'm not glad to be here, I'm very grateful to be here.

Our Fake Family Tree

Today is "Family Heritage" day at my daughter's elementary school. Last week, Camber's kindergarten teacher sent home a letter requesting that each student contribute to the festivities by preparing a short report about the country of his/her ancestors' origin and bringing in a related visual aid.

Camber is extremely unlucky because both of her parents' ancestors come from a country known for bad teeth and fish & chips. I was in the process of helping my daughter make the only visual aid that I could think up on such short notice--a map of the world with colored dots marking all of the places that this country colonized in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries--when my husband interrupted our fun with the declaration that "we can do better."

I have to reach pretty far back on my rather crooked family tree to get to Sweden, but I get there eventually. By the time that I remembered my great-great-great-great grandmother from Stockholm, Ikea had already closed for the night, forcing me to come up with something other than a catalog of assemble-yourself furniture to display to my daughter's classmates.

A search for Swedish desserts online revealed that real Swedish cooks rely heavily upon two ingredients that are not in most Pennsylvanians' pantries: lingonberries and almond paste.

At 7pm, I found a recipe for a Swedish chocolate cake that serves twenty.

"That looks an awful lot like a Texas sheet cake," observed my husband.

Camber looked at me for reassurance.

"It's a SWEDISH sheet cake," I said firmly as I covered the lone star insignia on the recipe card with my hand.

Tim rolled his eyes.

"It's either this," I said, pointing at the cake, "Or the imperialist map. Take your pick."

He picked the cake.

Christmas List: Draft 1

Cortlen's Christmas List
November 14, 2008

1. Real Light Saber-one that makes appropriate noises and can cut off people's heads
2. Tiger Shark-size L
3. Smencil-a pencil that smells like a root beer float
4. King Cobra-If the local animal shelter is sold out of these, a Green Mamba would be an acceptable substitute.
5. Indoor basketball court constructed in our basement or, better yet, built as an addition onto the side of our house.

Santa likes all of these suggestions but is leaning away from the Smencil. A pencil that smells like a dessert? That's impractical...not to mention just plain weird!


So, what's the very best thing that's on your kids' Christmas lists this year? I'm sure you've got some excellent ones...I'm anxious to hear!

P.S. I have to eat my words. I went to the Book Fair tonight and found the mysterious Beast Quest books that my daughter listed on her wish list. I was expecting to find a series that chronicles the collective plight of mothers of five year-old girls (we love them, but as a general category, they are awfully feisty). What I found instead was a collection of stories about regular old beasts such as giant squid and fire dragons. The title of the series is sooooo misleading. I'm thinking about writing the publisher.

Beast Quest

My daughter had a bone to pick with me when she got off the school bus yesterday afternoon.
"You didn't give me any money for the Book Fair!" she shrieked.

I feigned surprise and apologized for my forgetfulness. In reality, there was no way that I was handing over ten hard-earned dollars to someone whose literary interests are limited to non age-appropriate chapter books with Michelle Tanner on the front covers. Every Wednesday, Camber's kindergarten class goes to the library, and every week my daughter brings home a different gem from the "Full House" easy reader series. Since my daughter can't read the books and refuses to let me read them to her, each book sits on the bookshelf in the family room until the following week, when "Michelle gets a puppy!" is exchanged for "Michelle goes out for the team!" and so on.




Taking the place of this week's trip to the library was a trip to the auditorium, where students were encouraged to pay for books that they normally could borrow for free. Discovering that the Full House Series has been out of print since 1998--and is thus unavailable for purchase--sent my daughter into a tizzy, or so it was reported to me by a friend who was working at the book fair. Learning that her horrible mother failed to set up a prepaid account with the Book Fair coordinators understandably sent my precious darling over the edge.

"I was the only person in my whole class who didn't have money!" she yelped.

I learned from my friend that this was a slight misrepresentation of the truth: only one child in the class brought money from home. The other 18 children whose parents don't love them were forced to join my daughter in the hideously awful task of making a "wish list."

Camber's list included a lot of good reads, but the one that piqued my interest the most was number 3: Beast Quest.


"Why did you pick this book?" I asked my daughter.

She responded by putting her fingers in her ears.

On her way to time-out, I gave her another chance to answer. She chose not to, but it didn't really matter because I already knew the answer: one finds comfort in the familiar.

Philly Speak

"Can I have some wuter?"

"What did you say?" I snapped.

My daughter repeated her request and, as she did, I covered my hand in horror. There was no mistake; my five year-old was acquiring a Philly accent.

The seriousness of the matter justified a frantic phone call to my husband at work. He was not moved by request to hire a speech therapist, even when I told him that his daughter was turning into a Guido.

My husband enjoyed talking about the subject so much that he suggested that we brainstorm possible solutions to this serious problem over the phone. I proposed that all of our children wear earplugs in high risk places like the train station, the deli, and at school. Tim proposed that I find something more substantial to worry about.

The Air Hockey Table

The other day, Cortlen came home from his friend's house with two questions for me:
1. Who is Indiana Jones?
2. Where could a boy like himself get a leather whip?

Evidently, my son's friend had an Indiana Jones video game and in it the action hero did lots of whipping. Because I wasn't sure what other weapons Indiana had at his disposal, I thought that it might be a good idea to steer the next play date toward our house.

"Why don't we have Danny come over here?" I suggested.
"There's nothing to do at our house," whined the boy with no toys, "Except play Twister."

I didn't like the tone used to describe the timeless party game, but I let it go.

While it is impossible to compete with a Harrison Ford avatar, the delicious treat that I wrangled away from the thrift store yesterday afternoon--a "vintage" air hockey table--comes pretty darn close.




The price tag on the fake wood-paneled beauty read $30. The store employee who was taking his cigarette break on top of the table told me that that he had just unloaded it from some one's van ten minutes earlier. I was pretty sure the van to which he was referring was still in the parking lot; there were orange curtains on all of its windows.

Making sure not to make physical contact with the table or the body draped across it, I used the preexisting condition clause to bargain the man down to $25. To prevent someone from snatching my prize away from me before I could pay for it, I asked the man to use his walkie talkie to provide a physical description of me to the cashier and inform her that I was on my way up.

It took the better part of the afternoon to 1) Haul the table home 2) Scrub away the memory of the orange curtains 3) Draw straws to determine who would play in the opening match 3) Put the sore loser in time-out 4) Put one of the two winners in time-out for taunting the sore loser.

Once an acceptable rotation had been established, I went upstairs to feed the baby. When I returned, the air hockey table was alone in the corner, crying.

"Why aren't you playing with it?" I asked my three sports enthusiasts. No one answered. They were too busy contorting their bodies on a plastic tarp covered with colored dots.








P.S. I'm not suggesting that you do this, but I got a whole lot more than I bargained for when I searched "twister and image" on Yahoo. Evidently, some people like to play Twister naked. In case you are wondering, I am not one of them.

Posers

In case you haven't heard, the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series. This is a big deal around our neck of the woods. Since the baseball playoffs began several weeks ago, it has also been big business.

"I'm the only one without a Phillies anything," whined my daughter on "Phillies Day" at her elementary school. I thought my five year-old's assessment of her peers' wardrobes was a gross exaggeration...until I picked her up from school. Almost every man, woman, and child who exited the building was wearing a Phillies t-shirt, and 99.99 % of them had never been washed.

I apologized to my daughter for making her a social outcast, but I didn't give in. We like the Phillies, but we definitely don't bleed red, white, and blue. Out of respect to the true Phillies fans--those who have endured dismal seasons and the annoying Philly Phanatic (the team mascot) for the past two decades--I won't pretend like I am Chase Utley's #1 fan. Nor will I let my kids pretend like they are either.

That night, my husband sat down our eldest three and explained to them the importance of not being a poser.

"Just because everyone else is buying Phillies gear," he told them, "It doesn't make it right."

"When you're an adult," my husband added, "You can pick which church to attend and which teams to cheer for, but until then, we decide."

That was my cue to produce the visual aids. Next to a picture of our church's temple, I placed a Duke jersey, Angels t-shirt, and special edition UCLA Bruins 3D soda cup.

Everyone got the point.

The only problem with spelling out our loyalties so clearly is that now when our kids want to get our goat, they threaten us with the unthinkable.

"When I grow up," screamed Cortlen yesterday, "I'm going to cheer for the Phillies!"

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"And Carolina! Go Tar Heels!"

My husband turned white as a sheet.

Flu Shots

My kids love surprises, which is why I didn't tell my boys that they were getting flu shots until we were in the parking lot of the pediatrician's office.

"What are we doing here?" asked Cortlen nervously.

"Surprise!" I shouted as I threw a little bit of confetti into the air.

I was a little hurt by the response that I received.

"Oh no!!!" Kellen wailed.

"I'm not going in there!" screamed Cortlen, pointing at the primary-colored torture chamber.

A deluxe bribe package that included a Happy Meal, a Dollar Store light saber, and thirty minutes of uninterrupted play on the riding lawnmowers at Home Depot was unsuccessful in coaxing my sons out of the car.

"Let's go," I said, counting to three.

While I crawled in one side of the car after one bad listener, the other bad listener climbed out the other. I didn't realize how strong twin B was until I wrestled him to the ground. I looked up to find the entire population of our pediatrician's waiting room staring at me through the front window.

By the time that we entered the pediatrician's office (a good 10 minutes later), every patient under the age of 7 was crying hysterically. Thankfully, Cortlen was there to calm everyone down.

"I'll bet that I'm not the only one getting a flu shot today!" he shouted.

I apologized to the other moms for ruining their surprises.

I have no idea why our normal wait time of 30 minutes was cut down to 2 minutes. No clue at all. A nurse hastily ushered us into a room and, without delay, produced two syringes from her pocket.

"Let's get this over with real quick," she said.

"Let's get all of you out of here real quick," she said in her head.

I held the first victim down while the nurse poked his bicep.

"That didn't hurt at all!" shouted Cortlen the second that it was over.

"Mine didn't hurt either," chirped Kellen a minute later.

"I was very brave," Cortlen announced to the waiting room on our way out.

"I didn't even fuss or cry," shouted Kellen triumphantly.

"Good job guys," I said as sincerely as I could.

"Let's go to McDonald's," I suggested once we were all safely in the car. All of that exercise had made me very hungry.

Election Day

I love election days for several reasons, including the fact that at my designated polling place (my daughter's elementary school), voters are treated to free cookies and patriotic music played by the school band. For presidential elections, the professionals (AKA: the middle school orchestra) are brought in.

On most election days, my polling place is a hub of frenzied activity and excitement. Yesterday proved to be a disappointing exception. My husband voted early in the morning and was met at the polling place by long lines, hostile picketers, and several cranky and impatient commuters. I made the poor choice of voting in the middle of the afternoon, when all of the protesters were on their lunch breaks. The only person with whom I could pick a fight was sitting on a splintered bench next to the front doors. The woman was holding a handmade poster (complete with pithy political statement) in one hand and a sandwich in the other. It was raining and the woman's sandwich appeared to be from the tuna fish family, so I left her alone.

Poking around my daughter's school during school hours is made difficult both by the pesky "visitor" badges that parents are required to wear and by the nosy hall monitors who tend to hang out in front of all of the windows through which I want to look.

My plan was to tour the school before I voted. My path to the art and music rooms was blocked, however, by a menacing looking woman dressed in a red, white, and blue sweater vest. When I cast a longing look at the vast, vacant stretch of hallway behind her, the woman shot me a "don't even think about it" look and pointed in the direction of the gymnasium. I was forlorn.

My good spirits further diminished when I exited the voting booth and went into the foyer to claim my free cookie. I was distraught to discover that without any warning or posted public notice, the elementary school PTA had taken over the refreshment table and were charging money for the cookies. Even worse, I had left my wallet in my car.

My sorrow of leaving the polling place with an empty stomach was pacified little by the melodious sounds produced by the middle school orchestra. The band was playing, appropriately, the theme song of Titanic.

Portrait of an Artist

Last week, some friends from my husband's work hosted a Halloween party. Tim was clearly worried that I would make the other wives look bad because he kept inviting me--and then uninviting me--to the fiesta. Three hours before the party, he was still unsure of whether or not he wanted me there. I strongly dislike social events of any kind and normally would have jumped for joy at being given an excuse not to attend one. The fact that my husband made such a big deal about me not really being welcome at the party meant, of course, that I insisted upon going.

Not only did I commit to attend the event, but I also volunteered to bring a dessert. Being the good little homemaker that I am, I made a vamped up version of my special kitty litter cake.

Tim was thrilled with my contribution to the party fare; so were several of his coworkers.
"That's disgusting," said one woman as she bit into a store-bought cupcake with glow-in-the dark orange frosting and black sprinkles.

I assumed that a cake decorated with mock cat excrement would be the crowd favorite. That prize, however, went instead to a shockingly realistic display of edible human feces.

(The top and bottom toilet seat lids are made out of paper plates. The "droppings" themselves are rice krispy treats dipped in chocolate and rolled in peanuts and/or fruity pebbles)

Needless to say, I dedicated the rest of the party to hunting down the artistic genius behind this masterpiece. To prevent everyone from thinking that I was more interested in the dessert than in them, I made a specific point to not talk about the chocolate turds right off the bat. Most of my conversations with Tim's coworkers began like this:

"Hello. I'm Jana. Nice to meet you. Did you make the toilet bowl filled with poo?"

At the time, three sentence fragments seemed a sufficient lead up to the subject that I really wanted to discuss. In hindsight, I may have benefited from a few more.

When I finally located the artist, I effusively praised the woman for her creativity, passion, and overall good taste.

"That is the most amazing thing that I have ever seen," I gushed, as my body folded into a deferential bow.

My compliments were cut short by a tug on my elbow. As my husband dragged me away from her holiness, I wiped tears of gratitude from my eyes. Most people live their entire lives and never get so close to greatness. I am indeed blessed.

Trick-or-Treat

There are only about 20 kids that live in our neighborhood and 1/4 of them live in my house. To make up for the relatively low number of trick-or-treaters that my neighbors receive on Halloween night, most hand out high quality candy. In addition to offering full-sized Twix bars and jumbo boxes of strawberry Nerds, my neighbors also include in their candy baskets a few pieces of nasty candy, just for my kids.

At the first house that we went to, it pained me to watch my panda, nurse, and poisonous koala choose Tootsie Roll suckers over giant Snickers bars and packs of Bubbalicious gum. Of course I couldn't say or do anything about it while on my neighbor's doorstep (that would be rude). My chiding would have to wait until we reached the sidewalk.

"The next time that you see a big bag of Skittles," I advised, "Grab it!"
Everyone nodded their heads, leading me to falsely believe that they understood my order and were willing to follow it.

At the next house, all three of my kids grabbed a handful of chocolate turds.
"No more Tootsie Rolls!" I begged once we reached the safety of the street. "Please!"
My kids' poor judgment was ruining my Halloween.
My husband told me that if I wanted a Mr. Goodbar that bad then I should go home and put on my Cleopatra costume.

After coming to terms with the fact that I was not going to be able to control myself, I told my husband that he would have to escort the trick-or-treaters to the front doors while I waited at the end of the driveways, telling myself over and over that what I don't know can't hurt me.