Perspective

The best chocolate chip cookies my son Chad eats are delivered to him each week by his Grandpa Joe, who arrive on the 4:30 train to visit his grand kids, telltale white bag in his right hand. Each week, my son spots his silver-haired grandfather and the white bag like an enthusiastic bird watcher spots the American Caracaras bird... excitedly through the jungle of people. My role in this scenario is controlling my father from feeding Chad twenty of these plate-size cookies and road-blocking Chad from eating all the contraband after the first one is consumed. I take my cookie consuming enforcement job quite seriously, especially because the cookie drugs arrive right before dinner time.

Pickup yesterday followed plan until Chad decided to go rogue on me. I was alone in the parked car with Chad and the cookies. My dad was inside Southdown Wine buying a nice pinot noir for our dinner. Chad was safely buckled in the back and the cookies were jail-birded on the floor in the white bag of the front passenger seat - well beyond the reach of the cookie monster. 

Cookie Monster in "cute little boy" disguise

After several verbal ping pong rounds of "no more cookies Chad," and the return volley of, "Oh please just one more, please, please, please I'll love you forever and be your best son and I'll brush my teeth every day and not complain about homework...blah blah blah" I shut all dialogue down. I know better than to argue with an addict.

I turned my attention to the festive display of grapes and holiday lights shimmering in the wine store in front of me and, bam, without any forewarning it happened.

As silently and as effectively as a spider spins its web. As purposefully as a child begs for another toy. As discreetly as a glance of communication between Prince William and Princess Katherine, Chad had the entire container of saucer size chocolate chip cookies in his hand. I must have shut down my peripheral vision for a nano second because there he was with the cookies in hand, smiling a Cheshire cat grin, warming up to inhale God knows how many cookies. Except I am not to be underestimated. What I lack in physical speed (my Inspector Gadget Go Go Gadget arm was stuck in my winter jacket), I make up for in verbal gymnastics.

"Don't even think about it buddy, don't make a move." I said to Chad.

"I'm going to do it mom, just one more, just one more. I have to mom," said Chad, like eating one more cookie was a life saving blood transfusion.

"Drop the cookies Chad, and give me the container right now or else."

"Yes and now, I won't say it again," and then I freed my gadget arm and made a reach for the cookies.

Chad started bobbing and weaving and the cookies fire-worked through the air and shattered all over the second row of the car. To say I was flipped out is an understatement. To say Chad knew he totally bombed and made a Titanic error in judgment was my mistake.

"Really Chad? Really? Are you serious Chad? Really?," was the most articulate I could be through my ire. "Not only did you disobey me. Not only did you purposefully try to deceive me, you made a huge mess of my car. Unacceptable." What I wanted to shout in his face while beating him with a cookie is not fit for print. Instead I settled for, "That was really stupid." Followed by a string of, "moronic and idiotic and stupid again." I lectured about respect and consequences and following rules. I ranted about look what happens when you don't follow rules.  I repeated myself over and over again and kept referring to his act of defiance as the trifecta of stupid, moronic and  idiotic. I was done. The cookies were done. And I was sure my verbal memo having been delivered, was received. That was my perspective.

Apparently, perspective is unique. just like a story has three sides. After a muted silence in which I day dreamed about a nice glass of red wine or just chugging a bottle of pinot noir, I was sure Chad was ruminating on how sorry he was for his foolish act of disobedience, when Chad broke the silence.

"I can't believe you thought what I did was stupid," he said to me. "What?" I thought to myself and then responded. "Chad, it was stupid and don't let it happen again." To which he replied, "I guess we see it differently, I thought it was courageous."