10 Lies I Tell My Kids So I Can Eat Snacks Alone

Let’s be honest: parenting is 90% loving your kids more than life itself and 10% hiding in the pantry with a bag of chips you swore didn’t exist. If you’ve ever inhaled a cookie like it was a national security secret, you’re in good company. I love my children deeply—but I also love snacks that don’t come with slobber, negotiation, or the phrase “one more bite.”

So, to protect my sanity and preserve my chocolate stash, I’ve gotten creative. Below are 10 bold-faced lies I tell my kids so I can eat snacks alone—no guilt, no sharing, just sweet, sweet solitude (and sugar).

1. “It’s Spicy.”

This is the classic. It works for everything from Doritos to cookies to chocolate-covered almonds.

If they ask what I’m eating and I’m mid-bite of a brownie, I’ll wave them off like a TV infomercial: “Oh no, honey, you wouldn’t like this—it’s super spicy.”

Never mind that it’s a marshmallow dipped in Nutella. If I say it’s spicy, they back away like I’m holding radioactive wasabi. Sometimes I even throw in a fake cough for dramatic effect.

Bonus tip: say, “Remember how spicy that one chicken nugget was last week? It’s like that, but worse.”

2. “It’s Medicine.”

Listen, if putting M&M’s into an old Tylenol bottle means I can enjoy them without four tiny hands reaching for a handful, so be it.

“Oh this? This is Mommy’s medicine. Grown-up medicine. You can’t have any unless you're over 30, sorry.”

I know what you’re thinking: will they need therapy? Maybe. But so will I if I can’t have five uninterrupted minutes with a granola bar.

3. “It’s Gone.”

This one requires commitment and some basic sleight of hand. When they catch me chewing and ask what I had, I swallow fast and say:

“Nothing. It’s gone.”

“But I just saw you—”

“Nope. It’s gone. Must have been a bug or something. Want some carrots?”

I’ve perfected the art of disappearing food like it’s a Las Vegas magic act. Poof—gone. Nothing to see here.

4. “That’s Not Chocolate, It’s Soap.”

This lie was born out of desperation during a bath time standoff. One kid found my hidden stash of Dove dark chocolate and pointed, asking, “What’s that?”

Without hesitation, I said, “That’s soap.”

And just like that, they dropped it like a hot potato and went back to arguing about rubber duckies. Now anytime they see a chocolate bar with fancy packaging, they wrinkle their noses and mutter, “Ew, soap.”

I’ve never corrected them. I never will.

5. “It’s for a Grown-Up Party.”

Ah yes, the mythical grown-up party. A vague, elusive event that conveniently explains the presence of forbidden snacks.

When they spot a Costco-sized bag of pretzel bites in the pantry: “Oh no, those are for a grown-up party.”

“When’s the party?”

“I’m not sure yet, but soon. Very exclusive. You’re not on the list.”

They nod solemnly, as if I’ve just explained the inner workings of the IRS. And just like that, I’ve bought myself three more days of snack security.

6. “I Already Promised This to Daddy.”

Is Daddy aware of this promise? No. Will he ever know? Also no.

But when I’m holding a freshly unwrapped candy bar and hear the dreaded “Can I have some?” I say, “Sorry sweetie, I promised this one to Daddy.”

Suddenly, it’s a sacred pact. Untouchable. They respect the chain of command—Daddy’s claim supersedes theirs.

Of course, by the time Daddy finds out, the wrapper’s been destroyed and the evidence eaten.

7. “It’s Made of Broccoli.”

Sometimes reverse psychology is the key to survival.

When caught with a cookie or brownie, I shrug and say, “It’s actually made of broccoli. Like a new healthy thing. Grown-ups eat it so they don’t get wrinkles.”

Their eyes widen in horror.

“You like broccoli?”

“I love it. Can’t get enough.”

Suddenly, my cookie is the equivalent of eating spinach with toothpaste. Zero interest. Maximum peace.

8. “It’s Not Snack Time.”

Here’s the kicker: snack time is a construct. I made it. I control it. I manipulate it.

If I want to enjoy my gummy worms at 2:47 PM, I will. But if they ask for crackers at 2:48 PM? “Sorry, snack time’s over.”

They look at me like I’m the all-powerful keeper of time, which—let’s face it—I kind of am.

The best part is that I can declare new snack times at will. For me. Not for them.

9. “It’s Only for People Who Paid Taxes.”

This one started as a joke, but now it’s canon in our household. If I’m munching something delicious and they want in, I say:

“Oh, you have to have filed your taxes to eat this.”

“What's taxes?”

“Grown-up paperwork. You can try it after you do your own laundry for five years.”

They usually back off, confused but slightly afraid. Mission accomplished.

10. “If You Eat This, Your Teeth Will Fall Out Immediately.”

Sometimes, you just have to go full boogeyman.

When all else fails and I’m facing an invasion-level snack raid, I drop this bomb: “You know, kids who eat this stuff get cavities so fast their teeth fall right out.”

Wide-eyed silence.

“Like, ping! right onto the floor. Even the Tooth Fairy can’t keep up.”

I once followed it up with, “And then your adult teeth come in backwards.” Was it too far? Maybe. But did I eat my peanut butter cups alone in peace? Absolutely.

Final Thoughts: Survival Through Deception

Before anyone grabs their pitchforks and accuses me of corrupting young minds, let me be clear: these are harmless lies, told in the noble pursuit of personal snack privacy.

Motherhood (or parenthood, really) is a selfless job 99% of the time. But every now and then, you deserve a treat that hasn’t been licked, touched, or half-eaten by someone with yogurt on their shirt. And sometimes the only path to that treat is a well-crafted fib.

So to all the snack-hiding, pantry-dwelling, chocolate-hoarding parents out there: I see you. I am you. And I salute your creativity.

Let’s face it—we’re not lying to hurt them. We’re lying to keep ourselves from losing it over one more shared Oreo. If we don’t lie, we cry. If we don’t hide, we share. And if we share, we never get to finish the good snacks.

So pop that candy in your mouth like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Lock the bathroom door. Turn up the fan. And remember:

It’s not lying. It’s survival.