Cookie Monster

I’ve heard numerous stories about how, when my husband was a kid, he liked to sneak cookies from the cookie jar when his mother wasn’t looking. He spilled the beans as a young adult and she promptly bought him one of those cookie jars shaped like a shark that plays the Jaws theme song every time it’s opened. Just so everyone knows who’s in the cookie jar.

The apple, apparently, doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We made chocolate chip cookies last night. (And before you go thinking I am the mother of the year, coming home from a long day’s work to bake cookies with my children, rest assured I am not that mother. We bought pre-made dough from Papa Murphy’s that was about to expire. But hey! I try.)

I left that cookie sheet full of cookies on the oven. I sent to boys to bed, and I was thinking I should put those cookies away, but, whatever I’ll do it before I go to bed. I headed for the comfy couch in the basement instead.

Cut to 30 minutes later when I hear Liam tip-toeing across the kitchen floor. This has become a routine for him. I send him to bed, I sternly warn him to STAY in bed, I throw out all kinds of consequences for not staying in bed, and 30 minutes after closing his door he is out of bed.

I say his name in the most threatening voice I can muster, and I hear him scrambling back to his room.

I’m not satisfied he’s actually back in bed, so I investigate.

Liam has this little night-stand-like-table-thing by his bed. When I come around the corner into his bedroom, there he is: dangling his legs from his bed, facing the table that is now home to THE ENTIRE COOKIE SHEET, and rapidly, forcefully, intensively shoveling cookies into his mouth.

It took me a moment to take in what was happening, but as soon as I did I was all WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And right then, he dropped the half-cookie in his hand and gave me this look. This look that said OH MY GOD I’m in so much trouble. I’ve never seen him look so alarmed and terrified in my life. He was totally and completely caught red handed.

He jumped down from the bed, exclaimed his sorry’s, and then burst into pathetic crocodile tears because my child does not like to think Mommy is mad at him. (He’s also quite manipulative—I try to be stern—he bursts into tears—I melt in an instant.)

I sent him to wash his hands so that I could run downstairs and tell Nate what his child did. Also, I needed to laugh and I didn’t want him to see. I’m trying to discourage him from stealing a tray full of cookies after all.

I took a quarter from his piggy bank as a consequence. (He could care less if I gave him a timeout or took away a toy, but mess with that boy’s Chuck E. Cheeses’s fund and hoo-boy has a message been sent!) The truth is, I wish I could tell him how hilarious I really thought it was, because really Liam? Really? The whole cookie sheet? This is going to be recorded, and I am going to tell your future girlfriends.