THE DUM DUM MYSTERY FLAVOR?: MOTHERHOOD

I've decided I am the Dum Dum pop. We are one, and I am savoring the intricacies of the metaphor on my tongue.

The life-cycle of candy--as social indicator, enforcer, reward-system and icon--is proof-positive that whatever the prevailing wisdom is, it's only "prevailing" at best.

I remember a very, very old (possibly even Sassy magazine) article where Rosie O'Donnell and Madonna were kibitzing; the lithe, competent Madge instructing her poor, chubby disciple. The rock-candy-hard secret she exposed (likely along with one of her other body parts) was that if Rosie had to crack, for surely she would (I don't believe Madge was condoning this next for herself, but my theory is she was playing with some future, completely contrived identity involving empathy) she should just go ahead and eat an entire box of fat-free Hot Tamales, if that meant she would gastrically bypass one loathesome, fat-globulithic piece of chocolate.

Yes, those were the "fat-free" days--post leg-warmer, but pre-Kabbalah, pre-Atkins, South Beach and Starbucks skinny latte, somewhat concurrent with Oat Bran, but as always, a food-deprivation age powerful enough to inspire its own raging minions and, as always, "shoulds." At the time of this article, I was in that Sassy, pre-child, pre-child body phase where, had I known the ravages and insults which lay ahead, I would have enjoyed myself--and my body--a whole lot more.

It's all come full circle; it always does.

Now we're all supposed to be eating that same single square of dark chocolate every day for its anti-oxident properties. Fat can no longer be abhorrent if it's medicinal. It's not fat that's bad, it's just certain kinds of fat (oh I could write for days on females and fat). Now it's the sugar which is anathema. I would be willing to bet that today you could not convince Madonna to eat the sugar contained in a solitary, fat-free Mike and Ike, even if you dressed it up as a tantric enlightenment pill, a mere handful of which would promise a lifetime of a seamless British accent and gyrating proximity to Justin Timberlake.


I will be honest: none of that appeals to me either (except for the Justin Timberlake part), but that is because I have a two-decade greivance with Madonna over her vulgarity, and because sweets are one of the only things which hold little sway over my person. I am blessed or cursed with a knack for complete restraint around sugar. Don't put a Halloween bag of tequila in front of me, or mashed potatoes, because someone is going to the emergency room, but candy, eh?--I could care less.


I never had candy or soda as a child. My mother had me completely fooled into begging for something I called "cookies" which were actually sliced cucumbers, to the point where I would argue the definition with other parents and children in their own homes, preferring my version. That has to be one of the all-time most successful mother-dupes in the annals--and maybe it's one which led to my life of sugar-indifference, but I suspect it was motivated by my mother's own lack of interest in sugar...like most things, it's just plain DNA.

But it's not just me anymore, and it's a good thing I don't have a sweet tooth, because once you're a mother, that thing transmogrifies into a sweet fang which will turn on you in a rainbow-sprinkle second. Not only does your own body simply revolt against metabolizing sugar post-baby, but you may find you are unable to emotionally or socially process its implications either. You will be summarily judged an incompetent, uneducated and possibly downright abusive mother should you knowlingly let anything with an "ose" cross your child's lips, or fill a non-BPA sippy cup with a solution stronger than 25% juice. The use and misuse of the substance C12H22O11 is just another of the mind-boggling ways mothers judge each other. More arse in the arsenal (but that is another post).


But really, the abuse of giving sugar to a toddler or small child is only the abuse of ourselves. This is like the teacher taking recess away as a punishment (then when are you going to do grown up things like go to the loo, make copies or a phone call, genius?) If you doubt what I say, give a three-year-old a juice box and a ring pop, while you try to rinse a coffee cup. There is sugar in envelope glue, too--and you have just licked the flap on your own commitment papers.

Yes, I believe in watering down juice when we have it. Yes, I believe in reducing sugar (but fully believe Nutrasweet is ten thousand times worse). But I also believe in the use of the Dum Dum pop to achieve harmony--and to get the job done.

Case in point?--Little Boy haircuts. Two year-old Huck maintains a moppish coif which occasionally requires me to shape it like a hedge in front, and buzz up the back--all of which must be achieved in the time it takes to polish off ("a-one, a-two, a-three, CRUNCH!") a Tootsie Pop--or rather, a Dum Dum pop.


So, I have adopted the practice of plopping him in a chair, handing him a lollipop and letting the fur fly--which it does, then of course fuses directly to his sticky minicarpals. Yes, it's the Charlie Brown sucker in the leaf pile. And? Your point is? It appears counterintuitive, but it works for us.


So, he gets one Dum Dum (really, I've grown peas bigger than those things) per haircut per 6 six weeks. Which comes out to 8.666666 haircut bribery lollipops per year, but certainly does not take into account any other fruit snack, goldfish or buttercream frosting scenario of complete desperation on my part.

My sister is a fantastic mother, and she is much more relaxed around sugar than I am. But since I am a lover of devil's advocacy and on some level a masochist, here is an oldie but goodie from Kate at ACCIDENTAL HEDONIST. A list of foods and products containing high fructose corn syrup. Of course, the number of time Kellogg's is mentioned is simply aneurism-inspiring, and no one will be surprised to see Starbuck's Frappacino on THE LIST, but I actually find it makes me feel pretty good to know my kids have never eaten anything with "Lunchable" in the title (Why would you title something "like lunch?" This disturbs me. Like selling water called "Potables," or cars called "Drivables"). I'm not above it, I can only say it hasn't happened...YET.
Because if Forrest knew life was like a box of chocolates, Motherhood might be an ubiquitous bag full of these babies: the Dum Dum Mystery Pop.

From Wikipedia: "Dum Dums are made in about twelve different flavors; nine or ten of these flavors are classic flavors; two or three are cycled in and out. The "Mystery Flavor," present in every bag of Dum Dums, is a combination of two flavors in the bag. The combined flavors are random. This combination occurs because the production of Dum Dums is continuous--there is no stop between flavors. This practice results in the flavor combination."


The Mystery Flavor never changes or it always changes--depending how you look at it. Timeless, we still don't really know what the Mystery Flavor is, or even if we like it. After all this time, we still can't pin it down, or define it with complete certainty, or do it the same way tomorrow. Because, like Motherhood, it's constantly in motion, an endless reality borne out of need. Ignoble or not, that little magenta question mark comforts me as I tear off the wrapper.


This delinquent bowl of Criss Cross Apple Jacks might buy you enough time for a shower or blog post. If you're willing to pay the Piper.