Snacks More Than A Mere Tasty Treat

When I was a kid, a grown-up party meant all of the kids in the neighborhood piled into the playroom with a can of pop (which we had to split), a small bowl of potato chips, and if our folks were really generous, popcorn with extra butter.

Today at a neighborhood party, I count my blessings if none of my children fall into sugar-induced shock before the end of the evening.

I still remember the first time I witnessed a kid smorgasbord. A group of us decided it would be fun to get together and play cards. Among us, we had 13 kids, all under the age of 12. John and Betty Redenbacher offered their home, and we all brought snacks.

On the drive over, my son complained: “We’re bringing pretzels? Couldn’t we have brought Doritos, or M&Ms or pop?” he whined. “Kids hate pretzels.”

“No they don’t,” I argued. “Pretzels were a big deal when I was a kid. See, they have salt on them. Isn’t that neat?”

“No.”

When I carried our snack into the Redenbachers’ family room, the other children looked suspiciously at me.

“Look kids, pretzels!” I exclaimed, holding the bag over my head.

“Oh, good!” little Jimmy Redenbacher exclaimed. “Pretzels!”

“See,” I said, turning to my son smiling. “I told you.”

Jimmy continued, “My dog loves those. Here Blackie, look what Mr. Swarner brought for you.”

Blackie nuzzled his nose into my crotch. “Don’t mention it, Blackie,” I said, as he snorted. As I scanned the room, my eyes went as wide as lollipops. On every imaginable surface top, couch cushion, floor space and grubby little hand in that room, was every chip, dip, candy, pop and treat found on the planet.

I called my wife into the room.

“What?” she asked, pulling herself away from the grown-up conversations in the living room.

“There,” I said, pointing at the children. “Is it just me, or could we all be arrested for trafficking preservatives?”

“Where are our pretzels?” she asked.

“Over there,” I answered. “In the dog’s dish.”

She frowned. “Before they start eating, maybe we should talk to our kids.”

“About what?” I asked. “How it feels to have your stomach pumped?”

Before we could say anything else, Betty Redenbacher walked into the room. “Don’t be shy, dig in and eat whatever you want,” she told our son and daughter.

My wife and I exchanged glances. What could we do? We certainly didn’t want to embarrass ourselves and make a scene.

So, I said: “Sure, live it up kids.”

After Betty walked away, I immediately grabbed the oldest kid in the room: “Here’s a buck - watch my kids. If they start to slur their words, come find me.”

When it was finally time to go home, we all walked into the Redenbachers’ family room to claim our junkies.

“Is that our daughter over there?” I asked my wife.

“Where?”

“With her head in the Fig Newton bag?”

“No,” she answered. “Ours is under the coffee table with Gummy Bears stuck in her hair.”

I shook my head: “OK, you take Courtney Love here, and I’ll go look for Keith Richards.”

Later that evening at home, my son turned to me and said: “Thanks dad for letting us eat whatever we wanted tonight. We had a blast.”

“You bet,” I replied. “So, do you need to vomit again, or can I wash out the bucket now?”

I wonder what Child Protective Services has to say about this?