I would lay down my life for my kids without a second thought. If they were in need of a kidney, an eye, or even a significant portion of my blood, I’d be the first in line for anesthesia, ready to donate anything they needed. I’d traverse the globe, crawling through deserts and dragging myself over endless miles of pavement to shield them from any pain or sorrow. There’s just one small catch in my unwavering devotion: I refuse to share my food. Because let’s be honest, there’s no “we” in “my snacks.”
Now, I get it; as parents, we are supposed to model kindness and generosity, and I work hard to do so in many aspects of parenting. But when my little ones approach me with their big, soulful eyes and hopeful faces, asking for a taste of whatever treat I’m enjoying, they are met with a firm “no way.” Seriously, they better retract those little hands before they risk an accidental nip. I’m not trying to be cruel, but there are some perfectly valid reasons for my snack hoarding, whether I’m indulging in candy or something healthier.
To start with, kids are downright gross. I’ve witnessed their fingers exploring various orifices, only to wipe the evidence on my walls (thanks for that, little monsters). They’ve been known to leave the bathroom without washing their hands, and I’ve seen the remnants of chewed food floating in my drink after they’ve taken a sip. The slobbery remains of their Cheetos and Oreos are enough to make me cringe. I take my food too seriously to allow it to be sullied in such a manner.
Then there’s the issue of snack fairness. My kids often feast on treats while I’m stuck munching on carrot sticks and trying to squeeze into my playground leggings, which have limited stretch. They get cupcakes at birthday parties and sugary delights during every holiday, while I’m left to revel in my rare indulgences. So when I’m finally enjoying something special, they’d better reconsider asking me to share. Just because they had a cupcake at school doesn’t mean they can have a piece of my treasured dessert.
Let’s be clear: I take care of their nutritional needs. I’m not sitting down to a lavish feast while they wait with empty plates like Oliver Twist. They are far from deprived. And if I have something particularly scrumptious, like a box of Girl Scout cookies, you can bet I’ll hide them away for my own enjoyment. I’m not indulging in sweets in front of them while they munch on their sad carrot sticks.
I devote my days to meeting their every need—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I shuttle them around, remember important details on their behalf, and mediate their arguments. If I want to keep something as trivial as my snacks to myself, I won’t feel guilty about it. After all, as any parent can relate, it’s one of the few things that’s truly mine.
I’m not withholding love or support; just that Cadbury egg hidden in my top drawer.
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In summary, while I would sacrifice everything for my kids, my food is a sacred space that I refuse to share. After all, amidst all the giving and loving, it’s nice to have that one small thing that remains just for me.