I can't. I just can't.

I can't have cookies. I was just sitting here writing away to my heart's content, all the while thumbing through my mental to-do list which includes going to the grocery store to restock the milk supply. Dale's working *these are still my thoughts* and maybe we should pick up some Oreos since he won't be here all night; he would never know since the kids would have them all eaten up, and I might have one or twelve, they'd be gone before he gets home tonight. Please understand, with this many kids, it's nothing to put away an entire bag of cookies in a matter of one single afternoon. Or a bag of chips. Or a box of cereal, or a gallon of milk. It all depends on how good the other snacks are. Did I mention I'm having another one? Still in shock.


So last week I decided to make some cookies, for the children. We've been living on couscous and fruit salads, they need to have homemade cookies once in a while or what kind of mother am I? The problem is, when I make cookies, I awaken the terrible monster inside me, a cookie monster of sorts, and I can't stop eating them until they are out of sight. At first I start with a little smidgen of the dough, because you can't bake cookies with confidence unless you know the dough is right. And then I take the spoon I've scraped the bowl with while I'm waiting for the timer to go off. After the first batch is out I easily devour several hot off the pan. It just snowballs from there.

I am not a monster. I am not even a binger, per say, but I am weak. Not so weak that I am going to buy the Oreos, because what kind of message is it when I have to tell the kids to *eat them quick because we have to destroy the evidence before Daddy gets home!*...? It's just not right, right?

Let's be clear on this; Dr. Phil's advice is good. If you set your environment up for success by not keeping the wrong food in your cabinets, you can succeed. But by the same token, once an addict always an addict; there are ways to engineer the good foods that you have in your cabinets to satisfy sad, sad addictions. I have been known to, when there is nothing sweet in the house, make frosting to smother graham crackers in, or whip whipping cream with powdered sugar and molasses, the raw cream I would use in my coffee, just to have something that resembles ice cream within my reaches. Not good. When I am especially crabby, Dale will snuggle me up and sweetly ask, "Do you need a cookie?" This is just a ploy to divert my attention, but I can't shield the light of hope that shines in my eyes at that magical question. It's bad, I know.

For today, I have succeeded in not succumbing to the cookie monster because now we've been to the store and I don't intend to go out again, but this is my confession. I heart cookies.