Moochin’

Can I have some? Can I have some more? Please? One more little piece? Are you going to eat that? All of it? Are you going to finish that? Mmmmm. I LOVE that kind. That is my favorite kind! You sure are lucky. I wish I had some of that, Can I have some? Can I have some more? Please? One more little piece?

Does this sound familiar to you? I mean if you haven’t known me my whole life, does it still sound familiar?

I’m a recovered moocher.

I don’t know if it’s a birth order thing, a high metabolism thing, or a Pavlovian response to some 70s potty training philosophy my parents attempted in desperation with their adorable untrained FOUR YEAR OLD Ann, but I was always that kid.

I had ca-dar, and could detect one single Tart-n-Tiny from across the playground. I knew what it meant when everyone crowded around Anna Ruth–and it wasn’t to see her cherry drop off the low bar. CANDY.

Twice a week I’d go to Mullins’ and stock up on candy from both food groups—citric acid (Gobstoppers, Sprees) and chocolate (Twix, whoppers) purportedly for Hebrew School break time. My stash would be gone before we could even say “Shalom” (hello, in this case). Come break time you’d find me hustling: If you give me 17 Nerds I’ll buy you a whole pack next week! I bet I can crack that butterscotch in two, lemme just try. Please please please. Sam R. if you still read this blog, I apologize. I wish I could blame this on poverty, or severe sugar rationing by my parents, but we both know that wasn’t the case.

Can someone explain what the deal was with gum in middle school? Why the desperate quest for gum?There’d be that one kid, The Dealer, who was always stocked—no matter what. He’d flash his Hubba Bubba (or ghetto Juicy Fruit) “Got it. Got. It. Want it want it want it?” And we’d all cluster around with our greedy little palms outstretched.

Sweet baby Moses in a basket, I just realized why they call that candy whorehound! Hoarhound?

Anyway. The Dealer would sometimes pimp us by dividing one stick among seventeen kids and we’d all nibble on this gumcrumb with our front teeth until it got lodged way up in the gumline or we swallowed it, or it ended up somewhere in our AquaNetted hair wings. OR he’d present it all generously, and we’d all be suspicious but so hopeful, and reach for that expertly folded empty wrapper. Again. Dang. IT!

I was not a proud moocher, just a hungry little dickens. In fact I was well into my twenties before my Husband stopped finding my habit of eating my food and half of his endearing. He finally put his fork down.

So I stopped. Seriously, I’ve converted. But the candied apple does not fall far from the sugared-up tree. Last week 5.5 acted all hinkie when I picked him from school “I just gotta go back inside and see Calvin. One sec. Please?”

Who’s Calvin? And exactly why are we going to swim upstream against 1700 kids to go see him?

His teacher looked at me and said “something’s up with the two of them today, but we can’t figure it out.”

Later 5.5 confessed…Calvin had candy “he said he’d share!”and 5.5 begged him relentlessly all day. Dealer? Meet moocher.

The CIRCLE of LI-I-I-FE…