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thisnewdayThere was a single fudgie left in the box in the freezer. Little Jay had chosen a popsicle for his after-school treat so I figured that, just maybe, I had a shot at the last fudgie.
Turns out that, even though his grandma provides the income and I do the shopping, there are certain things, in the fridge and in the cupboards, that are somehow inherently Little Jay's. That would include, but not be limited to, juice boxes, Ritz crackers, Fruit Roll-ups, Chef Boy-ar-dee single-serves and, of course, the fudgies.
I can't tell you how hilarious it is to watch an aunt or uncle or grandmother being taken to task over the misappropriation of one item or other from Little Jay's private stock. Or how annoying it is to be the one held hostage by a belligerant six-year-old's acute sense of ownership. But this time, as I said, I thought I had a shot at it.
"So, how about it?" I said.
"How about what?" Little Jay said, as if we'd been discussing the full range of issues surrounding a free trade agreement.
"The fudgie," I said, trying hard not to betray my impatience. "The last one," I reiterated.
He looked at the soon-to-be-empty box as if the party standing in front of him were solely responsible for its, well, soon-to-be-emptiness.
"It's the last one," he said, as if making a crucial, last-ditch effort to ensure that all present were fully aware of that circumstance.
"Yes," I said for the third time, "the last one," still thinking there was some hope.
"Welll, I was really saving it for Aunt Sarah," he said, and closed the fridge.
Turns out that, even though his grandma provides the income and I do the shopping, there are certain things, in the fridge and in the cupboards, that are somehow inherently Little Jay's. That would include, but not be limited to, juice boxes, Ritz crackers, Fruit Roll-ups, Chef Boy-ar-dee single-serves and, of course, the fudgies.
I can't tell you how hilarious it is to watch an aunt or uncle or grandmother being taken to task over the misappropriation of one item or other from Little Jay's private stock. Or how annoying it is to be the one held hostage by a belligerant six-year-old's acute sense of ownership. But this time, as I said, I thought I had a shot at it.
"So, how about it?" I said.
"How about what?" Little Jay said, as if we'd been discussing the full range of issues surrounding a free trade agreement.
"The fudgie," I said, trying hard not to betray my impatience. "The last one," I reiterated.
He looked at the soon-to-be-empty box as if the party standing in front of him were solely responsible for its, well, soon-to-be-emptiness.
"It's the last one," he said, as if making a crucial, last-ditch effort to ensure that all present were fully aware of that circumstance.
"Yes," I said for the third time, "the last one," still thinking there was some hope.
"Welll, I was really saving it for Aunt Sarah," he said, and closed the fridge.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-11 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-11 09:57 pm (UTC)But there are also times, when I'm wading through one of those horrible troughs that we're both familiar with, when there's nothing to do but say to the kid, "i'm sorry, i made a mistake."
It's from those times that I hope he learns that adults do make mistakes, are not always right, and that he's really not responsible for all the crap that happens in his life. At least that's what I hope.