Cookie Monster

My toddler prefers to make her needs known by silence rather than speaking. She remains an enigma amongst my children. Last night, my oldest took it upon himself to boost her vocabulary. He had a plan. After dinner, he produced a box of chocolate coated dunker cookies from Trader Joe’s. Now these cookies are the favorite of every child in my family, including the sphinx herself.

He opened the box. He took out one cookie, showed it to her from all angles. “See this cookie?” he asked. She glared through almost shut eyes and put her thumb up to her pouty lips, pretending not to notice. “This is a cookie.” He explained. “If you want a cookie, you must say cookie please.” He then ate the cookie with great relish, savoring each bite and talking about how this excellent experience of chocolate crunchy goodness could be hers if only she would say the magic words.

She did not even look.

Upping the ante, my son summoned each of his other siblings and proceeded to dole out the dessert for each child that seal-like, smiled and said “Cookie please.” Some came back for seconds and thirds. She stared. Then she turned her head and shut her eyes.

After the others scattered to their rooms/baths, the teenager and the toddler regarded one another in silence for a while. I cleared the table. I heard occasional attempts to restart the lesson. I unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher. I heard him try to dart the cookie just out of range. I vacuumed the kitchen and wiped the counters. My son came into the kitchen and put the remaining dunkers in the freezer. “I’m sorry Mom.” He said. I patted his shoulder. “These things take time.” I explained. He nodded and walked dejectedly upstairs. “I let her out of her high chair.” He called back. I went to check.

Now my youngest son is nine months old and loves his baby saucer, so I had him sitting in that for a bit of exercise while I worked. I expected my daughter to come play with my baby son as he is her favorite toy. She wasn’t there. I called for her. No answer. I began looking.

My main floor is an open circle of rooms such that I managed to just miss her as she scootled around the stairway, but I then heard a second set of feet. And I know, her partner in all things, her next older sibling sister is on the case. Exactly opposite of the Sphinx, the loquacious Pixie doll always knows what her younger sister wants and how to get it.

Within five minutes of having been released from the Teen Boot Camp Cookie Drills, my little girls both had acquired chocolate coated dunkers without the obligatory phrase. They had eaten a bit on the run to make sure no one caught them before they got a bite. Following the crumbs, I found the Sphinx brandishing her cookie in a fat fist, waving it at the baby and saying, “Look Paul, it’s a cookie.”

My teen heard it from upstairs. “That’s my work! I should be getting the credit.”

“Eyes on the prize son, she’s talking.”

The Sphinx turned and ran over to the stairs, raised the cookie in triumph and said absolutely nothing.

Saw this, Got Annoyed. Thought You Should Know

So I'm to understand that while it's useless to read a bill, it's important to pass it and sign it into law and make us pay for it.

Driving the Lessons Home to Me

I have a sixteen year old. He is learning to drive. Sometimes he hugs the road a bit too close to the curb and I silently will the trees and the mailboxes to jump back about two feet.

We have high ceilings.

Enter one five year old child full of joy, lighter than the balloon tied carefully to his wrist by an unreasonable parent. Said child is clever and knows that school scissors will cut the ribbon and allow him and the balloon their much deserved freedom. The deed is done in an instant. The balloon is now 25 feet up and the child crushed, all before Mom has finished unloading the car of all the other children.

I came in to find my son shooting his glider at the balloon. One presumes he hoped to lance the loop at the end with the nose of his plane and have the weight of the airhog bring the balloon back down to Earth. Needless to say, it didn't work, though it did take down a cover from one of the lights on the chandellier.

He was very sad when I declared this a no fly zone. I told him to let me think on the problem over dinner. He agreed. That evening, while he was taking his shower, I used a broom to perform the manuever that the plane could not, leaving the wayward balloon stationed in his room over his bed.

"Wow! How did you do it Mom?"

Visualizing my son attempting to steer the broom towards the balloon and taking out a few pictures that like the mail boxes and trees, couldn't get out of the way, I punted.

"It's technical. I'll teach you when you're older."
"Like how old?"

"Sixteen?"

Amazingly, he accepted this answer. Now I just have to help the older brother with the driving. Maybe I could put this off for another nine years too!