I’m back on The Boy’s good side. It didn’t take long.
It’s a good thing, too, because I had just found a great new bedtime story that he would have missed out on had he continued his cold war. Goodnight, Forest Moon is the latest in a grand tradition of Goodnight, Moon parodies — now, with added Star Wars! Can you think of anything he would like better?
Lest you think he is in danger of wasting away to nothing — his teachers apparently do — he eats a full second lunch when he gets home from school at 12:30. So it’s not like the school lunch is all he gets until dinner. But it’s a shameful amount of food to waste on a daily basis.
So imagine The Boy’s outrage when we hauled the Costco case of little individual Sun Chip bags in the door and then told him he couldn’t have any! The horror! The indignity! He let me know his displeasure in no uncertain terms.
“You have been disincluded from my heart,” he said accusingly, crossing his arms and turning his back on me with great purpose.
What could I do? I’ve been disincluded from people’s hearts for less, and you can’t make anyone love you. I told him I was sorry to hear that and went back to unpacking the groceries. He stomped off to the playroom and came back momentarily with a Skelanimal panda bear.
“This Skelanimal is a loving animal,” he announced, holding it up for all to see. “But he chooses who he is going to love, and he doesn’t love you!”
I can’t imagine the horror stories he tells his teachers about how cruel I am to him. It’s a wonder they even speak to me when I come to pick him up any more.
That’s right, it’s GIRL SCOUT COOKIE time! I am meeting my supplier on Tuesday to pick up the goods. I’ll slip her a furled roll of bills, and she’ll hand me a stack of boxes of Samoas and a stack of Thin Mints, because those are my drugs of choice.
These will be the first Girl Scout cookies I’ve bought this year, but they won’t be the first ones I’ve eaten. Oh, no no no. My dad has always been a cookie enabler, and he sent me home with a box of Samoas yesterday. Which is now gone. I had help. Lots of it. Somebody else likes Samoas, too.
“Girl Scout cookies?” The Boy squeaked when I happened to mention that I had ordered them weeks ago. “Do you mean the ones that are shaped like doughnuts? With the chocolate and the caramel on them? Oh, man!” He twirled around ecstatically, thinking of the Samoas he would soon be devouring. He is definitely my son. Just the idea of Samoas puts me in a muzzy happy sugar haze. I am definitely a fan.
My dad is a Trefoils kind of guy. He has always liked a bland — or, as he puts it, “blah” cookie. Some of his other favorite cookies are Lorna Doones and Cameos. Definitely blah. I am not a blah cookie person. I like my cookies to have pizzaz, and as many separate elements as possible. The Samoa definitely fits the bill. It’s a cookie! It’s a candy! It’s practically a meal! If you eat a whole box of them, anyway.
My personal history with the Girl Scouts is not so sweet. My best friend and I were invited to resign from our Brownie troop in 1974. We were, the troop leader diplomatically explained to our humiliated parents, a “disruptive influence.” If you are wondering what constitutes a disruptive influence in a Brownie troop, I would say it might have something to do with hiding in the church stairwell until the meeting was almost over, then barging in just in time for snack. Oh, and pinching the other Brownies on their arms until they bruised and calling them “Girdle Snouts.” Maybe something like that.
I think the girdle will be on the other foot when cookie season is over. Touché, Girl Scouts. Until we meet again.
We could hear the tea-party chatter floating in from the next room. It sounded like a lively conversation. After a while, Baboo excused herself and came into the TV room to fill us in.
“I was pouring tea for the sock monkeys and the robots,” she reported, “and he leaned forward on his elbow and gave me a big smile and said, ‘So, tell me all about your grandson!’ ”
I have to say, I was not surprised. Every day, at least once, I get that modest request, always worded the same way: “So, tell me all about your boy.” Those are his exact words. That’s my cue to start expounding on all of his sterling qualities, which I have honestly almost memorized because he asks for this so frequently.
“Well, hmmm, my boy. Let’s see ... he’s really a fantastic boy. You would really like him. He’s 4 1/2 years old, and he’s in Pre-K2, and he loves to go to school. He’s a very smart boy! He likes to write and draw — he’s a fabulous artist. And let’s see, what else? Well, he’s strong, and kind, and brave, and funny ...”
He will sit rapt through my soliloquy, occasionally interjecting things like, “Hey, I like to draw too!” Or “What a coincidence! I’m also in Pre-K2!” When he does that, I reiterate that he would absolutely love my boy, and that they should hang out soon, and he always says that sounds like a great idea and he looks forward to finally meeting my boy.
If he asks me when I’m distracted or busy or just too tired to play the game, I cheap out on the compliments. “He’s awesome,” I say without looking up. “You’d like him. He’s really cool.”
One time I did that and looked up from my work to find him glaring at me with narrowed eyes. “Is that all you’re gonna tell me about your boy?” he asked with barely contained irritation.
Sometimes he catches me on a good day, and I really puff him up. If you ever want somebody to lay on the compliments with a trowel, just ask your own mother, right? Or your Baboo. Sometimes I don’t know how he can get his big head through the door when we’re done with him. Once, after I’d showered him with every accolade I could think of, I couldn’t resist closing with “and above all else, he’s humble.”
“Oh, me too, I’m very humble,” he said, nodding proudly.
Before long, he’s going to make us avert our eyes when he walks through the room. No one to blame but myself, as usual.
"They are sad because you are not giving me any candy."
For more (not from The Boy, just more great passive-aggressive notes from all over), go here.
