Share the Cadbury’s? The things we do for love . . .

The consumption of a Cadbury’s Creme Egg is a somewhat religious process.

Allowing myself to deviate even slightly from the routine – basically, to break off apiece and share – reminds me there’s nothing we won’t do for our kids!

When the Easter candy hits the shelves, I start stocking up, squirreling away the giant eggs in a corner of the freezer.

The idea is to build a stash that will last me through until the next February when Valentine’s candy gets thrown on the sale rack to make way for the Easter goodies.

It’s never happened.

 The saving and savoring that is.

By the time I’ve munched my way through 90 percent of my treasure trove, Easter is upon us and the shelves have been emptied of all of the good stuff. Left behind are the spice jellybeans and a few of the more mangled chocolate rabbits.

The goodness that is a Cadbury’s cream egg has been scooped up by parents with baskets to fill, and I’mforced to return to the dregs in my freezer.

So when I pulled an egg from the freezer this weekend and lovingly peeled the foil layer back to reveal thetip-top of the chocolate, I did so in a clandestine trip to the kitchen.

Jillian was ensconced in the armchair watching Sesame Street reruns with her father, and I had an aching sweet tooth to soothe.

Then I heard a little voice.

“Cooookie?… Mommy! Cookie!”

I whipped around to see my daughter’s towhead peeking around the corner of the refrigerator. Her smile wide, she said it again. “Cooooookieeeee!”

Thinking fast, I grabbed a baggie filled with the few remnants of Girl Scout season, and proffered the whole lot.

“Nooooo,” Jillian said.

She pointed at the bright colored foil in my hand.

“Cookie, Mommy!”

Now I’m a mother.

I’m not above hoisting my sizeable adult frame over the rails of a crib to cuddle with a teething toddler on a pint-sized mattress.

I’ve sat, teeth chattering, in a tepid bath to comfort my daughter as the too-cool water worked its magic on her fever.

I’ve done countless recitations of “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See,” responding to demands of “Gen,Gen!” until my voice has run out.

But give up even a smidgen of my cream egg?

It was a dilemma of epic proportions.

Hand it over and suffer chocoholic guilt with no end in sight for year’s worth of seasonal candies. Or scarf it down in seconds and suffer a whole other kind of guilt: the kind that keeps mothers the world over up at night wondering, “am I good enough?”

My conscience told the cocoa-fueled devil bouncing on my left shoulder to take a hike, and I cracked the top half off the egg, carefully portioning off a piece with not just chocolate but white cream and orangey nougat.

In her mouth went the tail end of my confectionary reserves.

Jillian grinned, chocolatey drool staining the front of her t-shirt a light brown color.

“More, Mommy, more!”

Maybe next year.

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Image via Keith Williamson/Flickr


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