Kicking the Sugar Habit

We didn't have a lot of sweets in my house when I was growing up. My mother explained that she had a mouthfull of gold because she was an only-child being raised by her grandmother who owned a boarding house that was within walking distance of drugstores with soda fountains . "If I wanted a chocolate soda at 10:00 at night, I'd have a fit and somebody would go buy one for me."

Despite my mother's efforts, I became a sugar addict anyway. My fondest childhood memories somehow almost always include sweets. The time we came home from the Christmas parade and our mother had tried to make fudge but it hadn't hardened, so we plunged in with spoons in hand, the fudge still warm, grainy, graced with the butter she'd used to grease the oval china platter she'd gotten from the Lion Oil Company.

The thin mints Virginia Bryant would buy from Dinstuhl's, so prim and proper, pastel-colored, the size of a half-dollar. They melted in my mouth at the perfect rate -not so fast as cotton-candy, another marvel, but faster than hard candy or Slo-Pokes. Lying propped up in my parents' bed watching TV, sucking on a foot-long, quarter-thick peppermint stick, rejoicing that it would last for hours.

Petit-fours at showers. Penny candy from the Handy-Pantry, lovingly and carefully selected. Sorting, counting, rating, and trading Halloween candy. Eating candy-corn one color at a time. Unrolling Swiss rolls. Eating a Hostess cupcake that had sat in the sun, warming the cream inside. Warming an ice-cream sandwich between my palms so that the ice-cream squished out just enough to lick a mouthful.

And I'm just getting started. It's ridiculous how much I can vividly recall about eating sweet things.

I've never managed to break this addiction. About a week ago for three nights in a row, I indulged in bowls of Captain Crunch and Cocoa Krispies. Numerous bowls. Just before bed. After feeling lousy all day after the third night of that, I finally came to my senses and decided something had to change.

So what do you do when you need to bolster your resolve? You research. Where best to do that? YouTube, of course. I listened to an hour-long lecture on the evils of sugar by Dr. Robert Lustig, and I made a decision: Cold turkey. No more sugar on a daily basis. (A couple of years ago I had tried to limit my sugar intake to no more than 9 teaspoons a day, but that didn't last long.) I decided to allow myself one dessert a week, Thanksgiving being the day of choice for that first week.

I already feel better. I've even lost a pound amid Thanksgiving feasting. There are plenty of other things to eat, things I would bypass with disdain as I reached for another cookie, like a banana slice with peanut butter, a piece of home-made whole-grain bread toasted and buttered. Popcorn with butter. (Goodbye, Kettle-Corn.)

The only problem was coffee. I only have one cup a day, but I want it sweet. I tried Equal, then Stevia. Both tasted awful to me. I decided to allow myself one teaspoon which I had today. It didn't reignite cravings, so I think I can keep that up.

I have a feeling I might need a support group. Anyone interested in joining me?

Wordpress on the Blink

I have a blog with Wordpress dedicated to chronicling my experiences as a teacher of English to children of immigrants, but I can't seem to get it to load today and I've just got to share this story, so here goes.

I often take my second-graders out to the playground with Ms. K's class. Our principal is against recess and still hasn't approved a schedule, but we've been going based on last year's schedule anyway. Two rebels with a cause.

I love watching my students have a blast chasing and being chased, using English in a natural, non-contrived setting. Ms. K and I sit together on a bench and manage about 3 exchanges of conversation in between all the kids running up to tell us things. My ESL kids mostly just want to talk to me, but Ms. K's kids mostly run up to tattle.

"Ms. K! Jaquez had hit me!" 'Ms. K! Jamario be saying bad words!" "Ms. K! Koneshia had pulled my hair!" You've never seen such righteous indignation. I just watch in amazement as these seven year olds make their accusations and express their own innocence with such vehemence. It's really quite funny.

"They're just like Bon-Qui-Qui," I said to Ms. K after one little girl stood before us, hands on her hips, her eyes flashing, voice at full volume, her head punctuating every indignity she'd experienced. Ms. K listens, then dismisses her with a wave of her hand, "Go play."

I comment that it seems like kindergarten teachers spend most of their day getting the kids to line up and the second-grade teachers spend their time listening to tattling.

She agreed that this year her class is terrible about tattling. I asked her if she'd ever heard of the Tattle Box, where instead of letting them tell you their complaints, they have to write them on slips of paper. Presumably, having to write it down cuts down on the tattling. She had, but had never tried one; then said, "I'm bringing one tomorrow."

The next day, she popped in to show me her box, a large shoebox covered in blue, labeled The Tattlebox. "We're starting today."

Three hours later, lunchtime, she popped back in with box in hand, "Look at this."

She took off the lid and the box was literally overflowing with white slips.

We laughed together and agreed that at least they're getting a lot of writing done.