Mommy is baking cookies for a fundraiser. I watch her, the best that I can, as I peek over the counter. She decorates each cookie by hand, and each one looks more delicious than the last. She gives me a couple cookies to snack on while I watch. When she’s not looking, I take a couple more.
I go over to the table where the finished cookies are, and that’s when I see it: the biggest, prettiest cookie ever made. I ask Mommy if I can have it. She says no, that it’s for a raffle. I try to take it when she’s not looking, but it’s too far for my arms.
I want that cookie. I beg her for it. She says I’ve had too many already. I tell her I want just one more. She says I can have any of the others. I tell her it’s not the same. I want that one. I beg, cry, scream.
Mommy gets mad. She slams her hands onto the counter, then puts the cookie in front of me. It almost breaks.
I cross my arms. She doesn’t really want me to have it, so I won’t take it. But when I take another peek at the cookie, with all its yumminess, I know I really do want it. When she’s not looking, I take the cookie and run.
When I take a bite of it, it doesn’t taste like I expected. I don’t know if it’s better or worse.
January 2014