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The Mother Tax
I am sure I’m not the only mother who has taken a sneaky nibble or two from her children’s enormous cache of easter eggs. I used to do this after they were in bed; creeping into the kitchen to steal from the hoard, pausing and twitching my head from side to side at every creak of a floorboard, like an oversized squirrel going at a bird table. I am pleased to report that this year I have changed my ways. I no longer steal from my children. Instead I have introduced The Mother Tax.
I like taxes. I think they are a good
My children are lucky to live lives of ease and comfort – something they may strenuously deny when they are denied a final Danger Mouse before bed or I say no to yet more chocolate – but we are wildly, gloriously privileged. My husband and I both work hard to ensure that we have nice things, but I know it is not just our work that has created this lovely life. I drive to work on roads paved by our
Therefore I have persevered with the mother tax in the face of vehement opposition. In return for a spoon of dessert, a lick of an ice cream or a chunk of chocolate I will put in the extra effort to play that game of Top Trumps or listen to the Trolls soundtrack for the zillionth time without screaming. Of course this means I actually have to be nice to them now, but I’ve discovered this tax thing works both ways; I am actually enjoying the Time Tax I have imposed on myself. Giving the kids that
Tax. It’s not terrible.
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