I love my kids. I say it a million times a day. Sometimes – when things are rough going in mommyland — it’s like a mantra: I love my kids; I love my kids; I love my kids.

I’m chanting right now.

I just found half a spit out marshmallow. In my living room. In the carpet.

I love my kids.

I know exactly who is to blame: Ryan, my 3 ½ year old. He loves marshmallows – any food frankly. He has an insatiable appetite, and an overwhelming desire to completely control when, where and what he eats. He gets into the pantry at all hours, and scavenges all *kinds* of foods: pretzels, peanuts, raisins, the aforementioned marshmallow — you name it.

Don’t get me wrong, I feed him. All the time, so that’s not the issue. But I need to know when he gets something to eat, because he has a tendency to wander about with it, and then leave the remainder in the oddest places. Which, as you can see, has an astronomical gross-out factor.

I’ve tried all kinds of solutions to keep him from grazing and wandering. I’ve implemented systems – and enforced them all consistently — to no avail. I’ve told him – time and time again – that all he needs to do is ASK, and he can have food. Then at least I know he has something, what it is and where he went with it.

But this marshmallow is the last straw. It’s time for some serious motivation to behave; some consequences with teeth. Pumpkin teeth, specifically.

Last Halloween we got a battery-operated light-up ceramic pumpkin from a relative. It’s cute—ceramic with tinfoily orange covering and a goofy, gap-toothed grin. Ryan took an immediate dislike to it. Called it “The Scary Pumpkin” and ran in the opposite direction whenever he saw it.

The Scary Pumpkin is going in the pantry. I’ve tried to be nice about it, but it’s time for the big guns. I’m pretty sure I’m in for some tears when he sees it the next time he opens the pantry when he’s trying to sneak in.

But I’m also pretty sure I won’t see any half eaten marshmallows on the carpet anymore, either.

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Post Script: Curses! Foiled Again!

So it’s been two days since I initially wrote about the scary pumpkin. Things were going swimmingly. Ryan was asking me every time he wanted food, and I was able to keep some semblance of order of where and what he was eating. Then I went to the basement to say hello to the treadmill while the kids were playing upstairs. Emma came down, proud as can be.

“Momma!” she said, “You’re going to be so happy. I helped my brother!”

“That’s great, sweetheart! What did you do?”

“I just taught Ryan that the Scary Pumpkin isn’t scary! He’s not scared of it anymore! Isn’t that great??”

Ryan wandered in, cradling the pumpkin like it was a stuffed animal, calling it “Silly Pumpkin,” just as Emma taught him.

Love that girl. Heart as big as Texas. But really?!?!?

“Yes,” I sighed. “That’s great.”