Crack for Breakfast

I took my boys up to the mountains to chop down a Christmas tree. Before any tree huggers complain, let me just say that this is a good thing – it is in designated areas by the U.S. Forest Service and helps with fire control. The Xmas tree cutting has become an annual tradition. A buddy named Tom; I mean Thom (identity protected!!) always organizes everything. He gets the permits, sets up the time and date and everyone convoys up there. People bring morning yummy food, hot chocolate, sleds and we make a long morning out of it. The kids love it!

Since I now live in Boulder, the boys and I had to meet up with the convoy in the foothills as opposed to the starting point in Denver. The problem was I forgot what time everyone was leaving and when I saw my little angels sleeping peacefully in their bunk beds, I just couldn’t bear waking them up. Plus, I’ve had a lot of kid time lately and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.

So I read the paper, got stuff ready, and enjoyed a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Oh my god, that stuff is like crack. Not that I know what crack is like, but I imagine it’s like Fruity Pebbles. Colorful sugar pellets of goodness that you just cannot stop inhaling. Until it’s too late and your stomach is cramping, your hands are shaking and there are green and purple soggy flakes of the devil in your hair and glued to your cheek. You look at the box and it’s empty despite it previously having been unopened when the binge began. Your whole body starts shaking as your blood is made of sugar and you panic because you know the two monsters in the bunk beds are gonna be really pissed when they find out Daddy ate all the Fruity Pebbles.

So you bury the box in the recycling, after you pull out the plastic bag that you can never get opened just right and always end up ripping straight down the middle causing the rainbow of crack flakes to fall into the box so you pour the box down your throat like you are drinking milk from the jug so you can get every last bit of sugar hell and then you lick your finger and poke around the bag for more remnants of pebbly crack dust before finally doubling over in physical pain and acknowledging the breakfast drug of champions is gone.

I was so fucking hyper at that point; my kids woke up to the commotion. You know when you are really sleepy and someone else is totally wired and rarin’ to go? It’s really irritating for the sleepy ones, even if they are seven and four. They came out of their room all bleary eyed and I started yelling “timber” as a fun rally cry to get them psyched up for the day. If my kids cursed, I’m sure they would have told me to fuck off and shut the hell up. Instead, they rubbed their eyes and asked for breakfast. Uh oh.

I suggested a fruit medley with yogurt and toast. They suddenly became Olympic style synchronized breakfast eaters as they rushed the cereal cabinet eager to find their box of kid crack. They pushed the Honey Bunches of Oats aside, ignored the Cheerios and even knocked over the Honeycombs. All I could see were their little pajama clad asses wiggling around as the rest of their respective bodies were burrowing in the cabinet looking for their Fruity Pebbles vice. I yelled out something about pancakes and waffles and they yelled out, “Daaaaaaaaaaaadddddy! Where are the Fruity Pebbles?”

“Here, have some orange juice. Mmmm, these bananas look yummy!”

In unison, “Dad! Where the fuck are the fucking Fruity Pebbles!!!!!” Okay, they didn’t swear, but they were coming at me like two thugs sporting brass knuckles.

My body twitched. Not in fear of my own little monsters; I mean I helped created the little greedy Fruity Pebble addicts, but rather cuz I was coming down off of my own cereal buzz and I was awkwardly touching my face, neck and hair hoping I could find a stray Pebble granule to feed the fever without the two kid angry mob noticing anything.

“Boys, there aren’t anymore Fruity Pebbles. You will have to have something else. And aren’t you excited to go chop down our Christmas tree?”

Amazingly in unison again, “What the hell are you talking about? Did you eat all the god damn Fruity Pebbles? We bought that box last night!! You are an asshole Daddy!.”

Like any good drug dealer, I tried pushing off some other stuff. Even though it’s not half as good as Fruity Pebbles Crack, I had a box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts. We negotiated a good deal – a banana and Pop Tarts with the promise of more sweets at the Christmas cutting location since I knew the moms would bring lots of goods.

My buzz wore off and then I just felt like shit. Those things need to come with hamster feeder controls so you can’t eat a whole box in one sitting.

I started this story with the intention of writing about the actual cutting of the Christmas tree and how Drew got lost with a mom for about 45 minutes to the point where we, especially me, were beginning to worry and panic. But see what crack and Fruity Pebbles can do to you? It totally throws you off your game.

Just say no to Fruity Pebbles.