I ran into Sam at home yesterday when I dropped off my Valentine’s party booty, so we got to eat lunch together. It began pleasantly, just two adults eating and conversing, until Sam finished his pizza and reached for the cookies.
"What are you doing?"
"I want a cookie. You said there are extras, so let me have one."
"No! You can’t open any of them."
"Why not? Give me a cookie."
"I can’t carry in open containers of food to the party. It’ll look like I found these in the parking lot, or worse, like I had an unstoppable case of the munchies from hitting the bong all night. THE SEAL MUST NOT BE BROKEN! You must be crazy, thinking I’m going to walk in there with used food."
"You’re really not going to give me a cookie, are you? Okay, I'm feeling a lot of anger towards you right now."
There the cookies sat, pristinely, all day and evening until dessert, when I had essentially the same conversation with Paolo, with Sam chiming in, “Paolo, she won’t do it, bud. You’re not getting a cookie. Your mama is MEAN.”
Which brings us to this morning, as I triumphantly carried the stack of unopened boxes of cookies into Paolo’s school. It was a delicate balancing act, as I was also carrying Luca, who picked at the stickers sealing the boxes until he had peeled them all off.