By Daphne Biener

I brought out the brownies even though I held great doubts that the girls would finish their meals within my lifetime. By this point dinner had clocked in at 60+ minutes and I was pathetically hoping for a rendezvous with my toothbrush before daybreak brought yet another opportunity to dine with my darlings. I thought perhaps a sugary incentive would encourage them to sprint for the finish line.

Not to mention I finished all my pasta AND my salad AND my veggies. I earned my treat.

Lo and behold with the brownies dangling like the proverbial carrot on the stick, the girls polished off their pasta in record time and reached for dessert just as I was rewarding myself with a second brownie.

“Uh Mom, why do you get another brownie? That’s not fair.”

Here’s a list, in no particular order, of the potential responses to Kira’s question:

1. Well honey, I get another brownie because I am a fat pig with about as much self control as an Oreo skydiving into an ocean of milk.

2. Oh sweet-ums, you know mommy’s in training for dog-sledding in Alaska. If I want to remain competitive I simply must pack on more layers of insulating fat.

3. Do you know that I love you guys so much I am willing to lay down my body before the calorie caboose to spare you the pounds and the pimples?

4. Sometimes, when grown-ups love each other very much but don’t get the time to express that love; well, then those grown-ups have to eat extra brownies to compensate so they don’t tear each other limb from limb.

5. Oh sweetie, with my 20-year high school reunion coming up, it simply wouldn’t be fair to the aging-cheerleaders-turned-couch bonbons if mommy waltzed in looking this svelte and gorgeous, now would it?

Instead this Donna Reed approved message came out of my mouth, along with a few yummy crumbs:

“Because I am the Mom, and being a Mom is just about the most wonderful thing there is. Extra brownies, my loves, are barely the beginning.”

That’s good, right? Love and affection lightly sifted and laced with sarcasm (mmm tasty sarcasm). Pleased with myself, I leaned back and patted my round belly like a cat double-dipping her chocolate-coated canary.

“Really, Mom?” Acadia asked, “What about when babies cry at you all the time?” No love lost between my youngest and the crabby cretins the rest of us call babies.

Kira chimed in, “And how about when we kicked you so hard from the inside that you threw up? It wasn’t fun then, was it Mom?”

No, no it wasn’t. You caught me. I’m in this mom gig solely for the extra brownies.

You can read more of Daphne’s work here on the mama bird diaries or visit her site, Sestina Queen.