This summer my kids got hooked on some pretty bad stuff.  We almost needed to host a kiddie crack sugar-cereal intervention, and it was all my fault.

It started out innocently enough. We were going camping and I thought it would be a treat to have “fun” cereal on hand. The kids had only ever had it when Santa brought a box last Christmas, so this was a big deal. They looked at me suspiciously when I suggested it, and I had to force them to go for it. “C’mon…all the cool kids are tryin’ it!” The pressure finally got to them and they agreed.

Before long they couldn’t live without it. The sugar rush was too good. They were so well behaved on that trip for fear of me taking their beloved cereal away.  Soon I was sick with power. I should have known better, but I bought another box. I doled it out in handfuls, making them beg for more, more, MORE! I relinquished only after promises of patient co-operation in line-ups and at appointments. Those kids would do anything I asked for fear of losing their fix.

Sugar cereals became my crutch. Oh sure; I tried to justify it. It had vitamins! And minerals! Advertising companies wouldn’t lie, would they? It’s part of a complete breakfast! I made sure they had fruit juice with it. It’s not that bad, right? RIGHT? But as they say, “All good things must come to a horrific screeching end.”

We had a busy few days ahead, so I went to see my supplier. The “stuff” was on sale and I planned on stocking up. But when I got to the cereal aisle, I couldn’t find the familiar box. I looked everywhere. I asked a shelf clerk and even called the manager from my cell phone. (I wasn’t giving up my spot in case they re-stocked while I was gone.) No one could help me. They were having problems with the manufacturer and told me I wasn’t going to find any within a 30 mile radius.

I tried to fool the kids by diluting the cereal we had with a generic impostor. But they knew the difference. The first few days were the worst. I couldn’t even leave them alone with each other. I stepped out for a few minutes once, and when I returned the house looked like the Marlon Brando scene in “Apocalypse Now.” It seems the six -year-old found a few errant squares of cereal under the couch and was now calling the shots.

I looked on in amazement. He had crow feathers in his hair and sat perched atop a gigantic sofa cushion chariot, which was pulled by my daughter and our two hamsters. I’d love to talk about what happened after that, but the therapist said it’s not a good idea to relive the trauma without trained personnel present.

It’s going to be a long road, but I hope to have them weaned from the stuff by…Halloween.