It started with a batch of cookies.
I thought it would be a wonderful treat to bake cookies with my son; he could watch the cookies baking in the oven, then eat the results. This felt like a true Norman Rockwell moment waiting to be pinned on my Pinterest board. My #1 Mommy mug was just an Amazon order away.
My son participated in separating the dough and rolling out the individual balls. He tried to eat a few (smart boy!) but was OK with my dissuasions to instead put them on the baking tray, followed by the oven. As we watched the cookies slowly melt through the oven window, my son looked at me pleadingly. “Cookie! Cookie!” he cried out.
Those were, perhaps, the longest 11 minutes of our lives. How do you explain the word “wait” to a two year old? Tic. Tock. Tic.
Finally, the timer went off and it was time for our gooey treats. Daddy passed out the cookies. One for our son. One for mommy. One for daddy.
My son reached for his cookie with hunger in his eye and drool on his lips. All was right in this world. Until, that is, he noticed that mommy and daddy now have cookies too. Suddenly his eyes dart to the cookie plate. His cookie plate. Empty spaces where cookies once laid.
Rage ensued. Screaming, crying, back arching. You would think we just had just told him the world was ending. Maybe for him, the world was ending. It was the greatest tantrum… no, conniption… our home has ever seen.