My 5-year-old son Tyler stood surveying his Halloween loot, strewn across the dining room table.

“Which ones?” I asked, stalling for time. But the kid knows me.

“Mommy! Did you eat them?”

“It was a hard morning,” I sighed, not daring to point out that also missing was a Twix bar, two Kit Kats and a tiny sleeve of Whoppers.

Right there Tyler made me pinkie-promise not to eat any more of his Halloween candy.

The day before, he’d found empty wrappers on the end table next to my chair. “Did you eat these?”

“No. Daddy did,” I said firmly, glad to throw my husband under the bus.

But then he caught me red handed after I’d put him to bed. I promised him then that I wouldn’t eat any more. Now, though, Tyler knew he needed something more iron-clad than my word. Good thing he didn’t have a Bible handy.

What can I say? I don’t buy candy myself, but when it’s laid out in all its miniature glory, what is one or two pieces going to hurt? Or six —especially after a stressful phone call with an editor? Instead of going into the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator, I stand in the dining room and eat.

I announced it at the bus stop, hoping to shame myself into stopping.

What I got instead were sighs and moans of recognition. Then suggestions: Give it away, throw it away, freeze it. I haven’t done any of those things and so far I’ve kept my pinkie promise. Still, I’m glad Halloween’s over.

People say you shouldn’t wish away the days, but I’m going to do it anyway. I’m glad Halloween’s over, and I'll be glad when all the candy’s gone.

And while I’m on the subject, I am so glad the election is over. I’m sure there are people out there —maybe volunteers or canvassers or political junkies — who are sad to see it go, but the phone calls made me a little crazy, especially by the last day.

Did anyone else lie to these people just to get them off the phone? I did. I agreed to vote for whomever they were calling about. I hope that’s not illegal. I figure it’s none of their business who I’m voting for, and it’s kind of rude to call and ask in the first place. It’s like those kiosk workers at the mall who interrupt you when you’re striding past their booth, head down, and thrust some lotion or spray in your face, urging you to try it. When you don’t want to, they ask: “Would you mind telling me why?” Yes, actually. I do mind.

Since I’m in a confessional sort of mood, I’ve even told telemarketers in an ominous tone that my husband doesn’t live at our house anymore.

The pregnant pause is fantastic. They’re not sure whether to say they’re sorry or to ask for a new phone number. It gets them off the phone in a jiffy.

I’m trying hard not to wish Thanksgiving away, but I’m so hoping I don’t have to cook. Think of all the pies and leftovers I’ll have to contend with. Just thinking of cooking and cleaning for a ton of people is putting me on edge.

From my office I have a clear view into the dining room. There is a bag of Skittles and some Lemonheads that Tyler would never miss. Plus, they’re fat-free. I’m pretty sure my pinkie promise only applied to chocolate.