I Hate Skittles

I hate Skittles. 

I do not want to, as the slogan goes, "Taste the rainbow."

If a Skittle accidentally fell into my mouth, I would spit it out.  This is how I feel about most candy.  Except for sour patch kids.

Levi and Isaiah, however, like every other four-year-old alive, LOVE Skittles. 

And M&Ms.  

And Blow Pops. 

And all the other Crack-in-a-wrapper kids get at Halloween. 

After a night of Trick-or-treat, Isaiah started the candy-consumption-negotiations first thing this morning.  I don’t think he was even all the way downstairs before he started in.  In fact, he fell halfway down the stairs because he was lugging his bag of candy along, slung over his shoulder like a little Santa’s sack filled with sugar. 

He very quickly negotiated the potential consumption of one piece of candy after lunch.  I know this because he reminded me of it before breakfast, after breakfast, before preschool, after preschool, before lunch, etc.  

The candy of choice?  A full size bag of Skittles. 

The twins waited all morning for that candy which, for a four-year-old, is basically a lifetime. 

Isaiah’s bag was quickly opened, half-eaten, and spilled and picked-up twice in the five or so minutes we waited after lunch before heading to their older brother’s Halloween parade.  Foreseeing the potential for a disastrous candy spill at the parade, I went to get a zip-lock bag for both boys.  I planned to open Levi’s bag and pour both into separate preschooler-compatible packaging. 

I forgot, however, that a four-year-old tears into a candy-wrapper like a squirrel attacking a plastic feeder full of sunflower seeds.  Place a thin layer of plastic between a toddler and a handful of chocolate M&Ms and stand back – all sorts of destruction is about to ensue.

One second we were ready, almost out the door for the parade, then Levi’s bag of Skittles exploded shooting a rainbow of sugar all over the kitchen floor.  He ripped open the whole side of his bag in one deft, semi-miraculous movement and Skittles rained down, scattering (or would that be “skittling”?) under the island, across the rug, behind the heavy iron radiator. 

This, of course, was a crisis for him – children hunt spilled candy like the shepherd hunting his lost sheep in Luke’s gospel, or the women hunting her lost coin.  Kids hunt lost candy with the kind of determination and passion that God’s hunts lost souls.


This was less than twenty-four hours after confection-ageddon (aka Trick or Treat) and I had already had it up to HERE with sweets. 

Remember the candy-consumption-negotiations that started in the pre-dawn hours of the day? 

And the incessant reminders? 

I wanted to explode like that bag of Skittles. 

One preschooler was crying while the other tried to find and consume as many of his brother’s lost treats as he could and all I wanted to do was hunt down the person who thought it was a good idea to give little people bags of candy bigger than their faces. 

I did not scream, though, like I wanted to, did not stomp on the candy in rage.  I dug deep within, past the part that had it up to HERE and somehow saw for one brief second the rainbow right there in front of me.  I saw how rainbows lead to hidden treasure and rather than breaking the moment further, I reached for the pot of gold.  

I knelt down beside the crying boy and the thieving boy and was thankful the dog at least was outside.

With due diligence, most of the loss was recovered.  

We put the rainbow in a new bag and I zipped it tight. 

Then we ran out the door together, two boys clutching baggies of brightness and one Mama carrying a rainbow in her heart.


By the way, we did miss one red Skittle.  This I know, because the dog found it . . . and spat it out. 

Even the dog knows better.