I buy snacks on Friday. Granola bars, fruit, the good crackers. By Sunday, the pantry echoes. GONE. Six kids move through snacks like a swarm of very cute locusts.
"Who ate all the —" "Not me." "Not me." "Not me." Six "not me"s. Fascinating. The snacks simply ascended.
After bedtime, I eat the snack I hid in MY spot — yes, moms have a secret snack spot, don't judge — and exhale. Mama tax is real.
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