When I Claimed Mom Tax
If there’s a 100 Grand candy bar, I claim mom tax. I get the 100 Grand.
I proclaimed it. I wanted to sign my declaration with my best John Hancock. I expected you to look puzzled, disappointed, or even a little miffed. Instead, you all perked up. Winsome little smiles escaped from your countenances.
You peppered me with questions like miniature news reporters wanting to get a tasty scoop.
“What’s that?”
“What do they taste like?”
“When did it become your favorite?”
For a moment, I reminisced about the time I chased down candy trails with an empty pillowcase. The same squeals I’ve heard them bellow like siren calls while they beckoned candy, were echoes from me.
For a second, you saw me. The distant past whispered the rustling of polyester and the dings from old doorbells. You heard the crunching leaves beneath my feet and the sound of candy hitting the bottom of my old McDonald’s bucket.
“Okay, sure!”
My eyes widened, and I let out a small gasp. No fight? Just a simple yes?
For the next few days, you walked past me, eager to pay mom tax. You placed the fun-sized delight you received from various trick-or-treat events in my hand—all without a word.
One most recent time, you came home and placed the treat in my lap. But I didn’t know where you found such a delicacy—we hadn’t gone anywhere new. I learned you received a treat from your cello teacher, but noticed she had a separate bag behind her—a bag brimming with fun-sized 100 Grand bars. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, you reasoned.
You told her my story—and she granted your wish on the spot. My heart burst.