Big Feelings
The Second Cookie
One cookie left on the plate. Theo had already eaten his. He looked at the cookie. The cookie looked back. “Can I have that one too?” “Nope,” said Dad, rinsing a pot at the sink. “One’s the deal.” He didn’t even turn around.
Then Dad did turn around. He crouched down until his face was right next to Theo’s. “It’s nearly bedtime anyway,” he said, in his ordinary voice. “One cookie was the plan. That’s not changing tonight.” Theo’s face started to do the thing. The thing it always did, right before.
Down he went. Not a slow sit. A real drop, FLUMP, right onto the kitchen floor. One sock heel kicked the cabinet door. Bang. Bang. And the noise that came out of him was much, much bigger than one cookie.
“IT’S NOT FAIR! I NEVER GET ANYTHING!” Arms going. Legs going. Face as red as his sweater. For one whole minute it was the loudest thing in the house. Dad stayed crouched close by. He didn’t fix it. He didn’t give in. He didn’t say anything at all.
Then, somewhere after the minute, the yelling turned into gulps. Theo’s fists came a little bit open. He hadn’t told them to. Dad was still right there. Over Dad’s shoulder: the stripy mat by the back door. The stomping mat. The cookie hadn’t moved. Neither had the no.
What does Theo do?
Every choice costs something. Let’s see what.
Cry some more on the floor
So Theo cried some more. A second wave, smaller than the first, right there on the floor. Dad didn’t say “That’s enough now.” He just stayed, crouched an arm’s length away, like there was nowhere else in the whole world he needed to be.
Bit by bit, Theo tipped sideways until his cheek was on the cabinet door. The wood was cool. Dad sat down on the floor, cross-legged, as if he had all night. Theo’s breathing started to go slower, all by itself. He hadn’t decided that either.
Hic. Hic. …Hic. The sobs came further and further apart, like the end of a rainstorm. Theo wiped his nose on his sleeve, which is not usually allowed. Dad didn’t say anything about that either.
It was very late when Theo got into bed. Eyes sore. Legs like spaghetti. Dad tucked him in and stayed a moment. “Big night,” said Dad. Theo nodded. He still hadn’t said what it was about the cookie. Maybe tomorrow.
Get up and stomp the mat
Theo got up without a word and marched to the stripy mat by the back door. Thick. Rubbery. Perfect. Then he stomped. Left foot. Right foot. THUD. THUD. It went all the way up his legs, and the coat hooks over the door went rattle-rattle.
THUD. Thud. thud. Each stomp a bit smaller than the last. When he stopped, his shoulders had come all the way down from his ears. Dad stood in the doorway, arms hanging, watching. Not one word about the cookie. He let Theo finish.
By bedtime Theo’s body was quiet again. He sat on his bed with his dinosaur and told Dad all about the worm at school — the long one, the one that might have been two worms. Bedtime was right on time.
Then he remembered his glass of water. Down in the kitchen, the cookie was still on its plate. Dad nodded at it. “Want to tell me about the cookie?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Theo, small and flat, and got very interested in a loose thread on his sleeve. “Okay,” said Dad. He put the cookie in the jar and the lid on the jar. “It’ll keep.” Theo carried his water upstairs very carefully, all the way to the top without spilling a drop.
Cross his arms and go still
Theo stopped. All at once, right in the middle of a hiccup. He folded his arms tight across his chest and went as stiff as a fence post. He stared at one spot on the cabinet door. Not at Dad. Not at the cookie. At the spot.
“Okay,” said Dad slowly. He looked at Theo a bit longer than usual, the way he did when he had noticed something. But he didn’t push. “Teeth, then?” he said. And that was that.
Teeth. Pajamas. Book. Everything went quick and quiet. No more crying. No more stomping. Anyone peeking in would have thought the cookie had been completely forgotten.
Then, all tucked in, Theo felt the seam in his sock. The worst seam in the whole entire world. “I HATE THIS SOCK!” Yank. Fling. Flop, onto the rug. Dad looked at the sock for a long moment. He didn’t say a single thing about cookies. He picked the sock up, turned it inside out so the seam was on the outside, and laid it on the end of the bed. “For tomorrow,” he said. “Seam out.” Under the covers, Theo’s toes gave one small wiggle.