I was cleaning out the random bowl of crap that is meant to only have our car keys in it when I found a lollipop, and not the crappy Dum Dums my hairdresser and doctor palm off on my kids. This baby was a fantastical gum-in-the-center genius pop.
I look right. I look left. I shove the sucker into my pocket like a shiv and continued cleaning as if I wasn’t going to break out from the humdrum of my weekend and into candy heaven as soon as the coast is clear of candy-grubbing chitlins.
But those children are everywhere and I have shallow pockets. Whenever I lean over to keep up my mom-weekend-cleaning faÃ§ade, I have to keep one hand in my right pocket so my lovely lollipop of luxury will not fall to the floor and be confiscated by the short and vicious candy policy. And because my left hand is about as coordinated as a three-legged cat with a sock over his face, the cleaning up slows to a snail’s pace and I see myself still launching plastic food into a plastic kitchen cabinet in five years.
I finally sneak into the non-plastic kitchen and drop my new-found crunchy deliciousness into My No-Kids-Allowed-Mama-Candy Basket like a ninja army ranger pirate felony on a secret mission to EAT CANDY ALONE.
Because the moment my children see the lollipop, they will FREAK OUT over who gets the single gum-filled love-on-a-stick. The ensuing wrestling-screaming match will result in blood and hair and more cleaning, and I will mistakenly say: You should share it. And they will agree with my profound mom wisdom and I WILL HAVE NO LOLLIPOP.
So I turn my back on the pop and roll into the living room gathering Legos under the couch while announcing I’M GATHERING LEGOS UNDER THE COUCH TO PUT AWAY. The only response is the lollipop calling, AALLLLEEXX, but my kids are all MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA and our bathrooms don’t have locks.
But around 3 p.m., my children are distracted by an explosion of glitter and Matchbox cars. I dash to the kitchen to go all licklicklickandbite like a big-eyed impatient Tootsie Roll Pop owl while racking my brain for the name of a disease I can call my red tongue when the delectable pop is finished but my children notice my cherry breath.
I pick up the goal of my entire weekend, but as I look closer at the wrapper, IT WAS ORANGE.
I throw it away. Even my kids have standards higher than an old orange flavor lollipop.