Teresa Strasser by Teresa Strasser

I've been eating more than my share of Wetzel's Pretzels lately — and that space-age cheese that comes along with them, that creamy, tangy neon orange gelatinous delight that lives under foil, and probably lives forever.

I'm the mother of a toddler, so this much is true: I spend my fair share of time in malls, temperature-controlled, mom-seducing meccas.

At my new favorite mall, for example, there is not only an indoor play area, but there are three children's clothing stores, a huge toy store where the staff is liberal about letting your kid beat the electric drums and, best of all, a mall "train," by which I mean a little motorized vehicle shaped like a train that goes round and round the mall, past the Forever 21 and the Chico's.

This mall has two Wetzel's stores, making this chain the Starbucks of twisted carbs. Every time I go to that mall, I tell myself — preaching something perhaps as spiritual as literal — I will not be a Wetzel Mom.

Sure, I'd like to not be cramming my body into mom jeans because I've eaten seven containers of cheese food in a weekend. But being a Wetzel Mom isn't just about the calories and the waistline. When I look at the other mall moms, also shoving in a Wetzel on the go, perhaps sharing the jejune product with their little ones, I don't want to be one of them, hanging out somewhere as bland and uncreative and devoid of culture as the mall.

However, have you had one of those things?

They aren't just easy, especially the tiny bits that come in a greasy little bag. They are addicting. They take the edge off. Broccoli does not come at the mall in a little bag with the promise of giving you a small delight, a relief from what might be a 14-hour day with a toddler who does not nap.

I take him to enriching classes, and I feed him (and myself) enriching foods, but there are days, long nap-free days, when a girl and her boy just need a pretzel. No, better, we need the little sticks; we can't even be bothered to tear apart an actual pretzel. We are that lazy. And that tired.

As any parent knows, the thing about 2-year-old boys, especially the "spirited" variety, is that you are mainly on a sort of suicide watch, stopping your kid from killing himself as he "explores" his world, which is filled with balconies from which to topple, cleaning products to drink, ledges to scale and choking hazards to lick.

As I spend my weekends in charge of keeping this incredible treasure from sticking a Band-Aid up his nose or gnawing a toxic marker, or from trying to fly like Superman off the bed and into a table, I get exhausted from the nonstop stress.

Does this make me a full-on Wetzel Mom? The kind who stares with dead eyes as she and her kids ride the Ladybug Train around and around a stupid indoor mall chomping fast food? No.

The other day I walked by one of those moms and her brood, and there was a cornucopia of products from the big W: Hot dogs covered in pretzel. Dipping sauces ranging from orange to red. The entire table was sad and quiet — and frankly (I say this without judging, as I have had my weight battles), obese.

I froze in my tracks, holding my toddler's hand, an apocalyptic vision of what could be my future dining in front of me.

Dickens showed his character the Ghost of Christmas Future what the world would look like if he remained Scrooge-like.

The mall showed me my own ghost.

Do I want to sit on a fake train eating fake food so I can while away the hours without worrying about whether my son is in immediate danger? So I can relax for a second? So I can stare into the window of Nine West and ponder shoes? Like a Wetzel, it shouldn't be a staple. But once in a while, it can't hurt.

These are the inner battles of a sort-of new mom. Coax the kid into a song circle at some toddler yoga class and lure him into eating only quinoa and kale, or find compromise in the twisted form of the occasional hunk of salted bread.

When I figure it out, I'll let you know. Until then, please don't judge me if I upgrade to the heavy stuff, the pretzel dog, the jalapeno cheese, or even, dare I say ... the soda. And whatever you do, don't shake my hand, because it will be covered in butter. I mean, butter product.

Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, "Exploiting My Baby," the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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