At some point mid marshmallow bag I realized our two oldest were responsible for eating all but one of the many, many roasted marshmallows that had either caught fire, barely kissed the smoke above the campfire flames or that one in a million, perfectly browned on the outside, warm and gooey on the inside. One in a million, that sounds right. I ate one and they ate a million.

I watched as my seven year old had a sugar-induced meltdown (not unlike a marshmallow being licked by flames) she became puffy, white and melted into a puddle on the ground in an uncontrollable tantrum unlike any I had seen before.

In her mile-a-minute rant, she began sobbing, sliding further down the metaphorical roasting stick into insanity, groaning about everything from being picked on for being the oldest, Ellie’s tattle tailing antics (we really should address this), the amount of sticky white stuff permanently matting down her hair and of all things, her claims her sister had eaten more marshmallows than she had which I was in no position to deny as I too was feeling a twitch coming on and that was from just the one hot ball of sweet fluff.

She calmed down eventually after we brushed her teeth seven times to peel away the brown outer layer followed by the white inner layer of sugar and ultimately expose enamel.

I’m not sure if it was calming so much as it was slipping into a coma that finally helped settle her to sleep.

I went to check on her a little later and she was in a deep sleep. While I have no way of knowing what she was dreaming about, in the darkness it did appear she was chewing her pillow.