WOLVES When I am older and my kids are married I will buy myself Danishes and croissants hazelnut frappés and Rosemarie chocolate bars wafer rolls and brownie bars. But a treat is not a treat if you have to eat it with one hand while using the other to fend off the wolves howling for a taste

T he end of a long shopping trip is when I start handing out treats.

I’m not a bribing kind of mother but I get exhausted from walking for so long; maneuvering the stroller which gets heavier with each bag hung from its handles; holding up headbands and trying to visualize Shabbos outfits; navigating through shopping carts and children and frighteningly well-dressed women with groceries balanced on my baby’s feet and then back to Aisle Three because I forgot yogurts and then waiting and waiting at the register while the cashier says something to her friend shouts at the stock guy sighs and starts looking up codes for the fruit and runs my credit card twice before it goes through...

By the end of all this I am so physically and spiritually depleted that I feel a kind of awe for my children who have to take two steps for every one of mine and who don’t get the satisfaction of crossing things off their to-do list — which is what keeps me going.

In this context the low-level bickering and nagging that’s been going on throughout the walk seems superhuman Kelm-level self-control. They are such good kids I think emotionally. They should get treats. They deserve treats.

So we stop at the bakery where they each get one cookie. Next they pile onto the giraffe outside the drugstore and sit patiently while I come up with two quarters. The giraffe bucks and rears the kids shriek and giggle and I lean on the stroller and wish — I wish there was one more seat on the giraffe so I could just sit for a minute.

Next we go into the discount store and each kid gets to pick a coloring book. They take hours putting their heads together evaluating each candidate’s aesthetic and intellectual qualities like they’re entering into a lifelong contract like this is the only coloring book they will ever buy. I sit on a lawn chair considerately located in the same aisle and take short naps between weighing in on this momentous decision. They ask for a pack of gum on the way out and I say yes because they are such good kids.

Then it’s my turn.

We are almost at the corner. The end is in sight. “One more stop” I say.

“What do we need here?” the kids whine holding the door (they’re such good kids) as I wheel the stroller into the takeout store.

“It’s time for Mommy’s treat” I say. Because it’s been a long day for me too and I am such a good mother.

The kids wait breathlessly for my order and are appalled when they hear it. “That’s your treat?” they ask.

Yup. This is my treat the moment I’ve been waiting for. A small takeout bag holding a modest half-pound of kasha varnishkes.

It’s getting dark, and the kids skip along on each side of the stroller. They look back at the avenue behind us, a wild splendor of decadent delights, and then at my takeout bag. “Kasha varnishkes?” they ask again.

Yes. My treat is kasha varnishkes.

Because in minutes we will be home, and we will sit down for dinner, and I will take out my treat. I will be so, so tired, and I can already taste my first bite — the grease, the salt, the way the kasha crumbles against the cold noodles. My husband will be watching, and I’ll offer, “Do you want some?” And he’ll say, “No thanks.”

And the kids will finish their food and wander around whining for nosh, but they will pass my kasha varnishkes without a second glance, and I will eat in peace.

When I am older and my kids are married, I will buy myself danishes and croissants, hazelnut frapp?s and Rosemarie chocolate bars, wafer rolls and brownie bars. But a treat is not a treat if you have to eat it with one hand while using the other to fend off the wolves howling for a taste. It’s hard to enjoy a frapp? when Kid Two whines that Kid One had a larger sip, while Kid Three takes advantage of the distraction to slurp up half the cup, so that Kid Four breaks down because there’s barely anything left for her!

I don’t have these problems with kasha varnishkes.

So the kids complain that there’s no nosh in this house, and my husband fruitlessly lists the cookies and snack bags and gum they came in eating, and I smile and eat my kasha varnishkes, unbothered and in peace. Because sometimes the greatest treat for a mother, even one with such good kids, is just to be left alone.