Confessions of the Official Snack Dealer Club

A membership I never applied for, can’t quit, and apparently now have a hat for.

Nobody warns you.

They warn you about the sleepless nights. They warn you about the diapers, the teething, the way your heart suddenly walks around outside your body wearing tiny shoes. The tías come out of the woodwork with advice you didn’t ask for and a remedio for everything.

But nobody — nobody — sits you down and says: “Mija, the second you become a mom, you are quietly drafted into the cartel.”

Not that kind of cartel. Worse. Snacks.

The purse is not a purse. It’s a pantry.

I want you to go look inside your bag right now. I’ll wait.

Found it? Good. Let’s take inventory together:

• Three crushed goldfish, free-range, no bag.
• One (1) fruit pouch, mystery flavor, slightly warm.
• A granola bar so old it has lore.
• A single cheddar bunny that has clearly been through some things.
• And somehow — somehow — a fruit snack in a pocket you didn’t know your purse had.

This is not a purse. This is a mobile distribution center. And you, my love, are the supplier.

Every outing is a supply run

You cannot leave the house empty-handed. It’s not allowed. Walking out the door without snacks is how you end up parenting a feral toddler in the cereal aisle while strangers pretend not to watch. Ya tú sabes.

So you pack. The park? Snacks. The doctor’s office? Snacks. A five-minute drive to drop something off? Believe it or not — snacks. You have become a woman who keeps emergency provisions in the car like the apocalypse is coming and the apocalypse is specifically a four-year-old saying “I’m hungry” three minutes after lunch.

And here’s the part they don’t tell you: it’s not just your kids anymore.

It’s the neighbor’s kid. It’s the cousin. It’s the random child at the birthday party who locked eyes with you and somehow knew. They find you. They always find you. “Mami, do you have—” Yes. Yes, I do. I always do. I’m the plug.

I run on cafecito and other people’s crumbs

Let’s be honest about the economics here. In this entire operation, I am the only one not getting a snack.

I am out here rationing pouches like a tiny, tired logistics manager, and my own lunch is whatever I can eat standing up over the sink at 2pm. My actual fuel? Cafecito. A little colada at the family party that I pretend to share but absolutely do not. The crumbs of a granola bar I confiscated “for safety reasons.”

It’s fine. I’m fine. The hat doesn’t cover everything, but it covers a lot. (We’ll get there.)

It’s not just me. It’s generational.

Here’s what I’ve realized: this is inherited.

Every familia has La Que Siempre Tiene Snacks. Growing up, it was my abuela, whose purse could produce a galletica, a caramelo, and a full tissue packet faster than you could say “tengo hambre.” It was my mom, who fed the entire block and somehow always had room for one more plate. It was every tía at every reunion, circling with food like love was a thing you could hand someone in a napkin. (It is. It is exactly that.)

And now it’s me. Apparently it’s me. I have become the woman whose bag is a pantry and whose love language is “have you eaten?” I didn’t choose this. The crown was passed. The pouches were inherited. Dale.

So we made it official

Listen. The title was always there. I just decided to put it in embroidery.

That’s the whole origin story of the Official Snack Dealer Club hat. It’s the job description we never got paid for, stitched onto something you can actually wear out of the house. Clean. Funny. Not the kind of “funny mom” merch that cracks and peels after one wash and makes you look like you lost a bet — actually embroidered, actually wearable, the kind of thing that survives the splash pad and the school pickup line.

It comes in five colors, it’s one-size, and yes, it pairs disturbingly well with a messy bun and a cold cafecito you forgot to drink.

Is it a hat? Technically. Is it a membership card for a club you’ve been running out of your purse for years with zero days off and no PTO? Also yes.

Welcome to the club, mami

No application. No dues. No interview process — your purse already passed the background check.

If you’ve ever fished a snack out of your bag for a child who is not yours, if you’ve ever said “we have snacks at home” and then produced a full charcuterie situation from the center console, if your love sounds a lot like “have you eaten?” — congratulations.

You were already a member. We just made you a hat.

🤍 The Official Snack Dealer Club — official title, unofficial full-time job.

Shop the hat →