On our way out the door this morning, Miles snagged two bags of Pirate’s Booty. Almost as though he sensed what I was going to say, he quickly interjected, “One’s for me and one’s for you, Daddy.” Oh, okay then.
When we got to the car, he only had one bag in his hand. The other bag, he assured me, was in his bookbag, where he was “keeping it safe for me.” A somewhat dubious claim, but I allowed it.
Within moments of pulling out onto the road, Miles unzipped his bookbag and crammed the first bag inside. “I don’t want to eat Pirate Booty right now,” he said.
“Wait, you’re not going to eat any of it?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “And YOU’RE not going to eat any of it.”
It was all a ruse. The bag had never been for me. Of course I knew this, but for neither of the bags to be for either of us? My son is an agent of chaos.
The Perils (& Pride) of Paternity 