On a Friday mid-afternoon, the at-home mother glanced at the clock and knew that in just a few minutes her freedom from bowing and scraping to her family's every whim would end. In a desperate attempt to hold on to any vestige of control over her life that would soon be lost, she quickly scanned the offerings left over from the previous weekend's activities and chose the most promising option.
If she was to go down, she would go down beautifully.
She hoped, after this particular post-Easter feeding frenzy, that the odds would be in her favor this time. After all, it said so right on the box. The awareness that she might have misunderstood what the label on the box was describing, and the consequences of what she had just done hit her as she was licking the last of the evidence off of her fingers.
The front door opened, and her son walked in. She shrieked.
Too late, she realized that the label on the chocolate bunny she consumed would fail to produce in her the physical effects she thought it promised.