Today was good. The kids were tricky, and I had a teacher request a chat with me because the 10 year old is not completing his homework...but I didn't have a single urge to binge. The only time I felt upset in the slightest is this evening. I baked something for my husband to bring to work tomorrow, and the ratio of chocolate to peanut butter doesn't seem quite right. I am so mad at myself. They don't look as scrumptious as I had hoped and I want his buddies at work to be bedazzled by their beauty and their tastiness. I am embarassed. I am annoyed with myself. I know in the morning when I go to put them in the tupperware box I am going to be tempted to eat the scraps to hide the evidence of my "less than perfect" creation. If I eat the scraps I will get a sugar high and want to consume everything in sight. My day will be ruined before breakfast has even been served. I know. I know. Stop baking. But I love it. I love cooking. I wish I knew if my desire to create and cook so much was related to my eating disorder, or totally unrelated.