honor your father

Way back in the day – I must have been less than 8 years old – I got into the girl-scout cookies when no one was watching and emptied the box. I don’t remember if it was the cookies, or illness, but I did see the cookies again that night. They were those mint deals that the girls still sell. I have despised mint anything since that day.
But I don’t despise cookies. Au contraire, I love cookies. I have a cookie problem. There are cookies at faculty meetings, and all my colleagues make fun of me.
My children also like cookies, especially Jack. Jack gets angry with me when he goes to get a cookie(s) and there are none left. Evidently, he has shared this frustration with Allison, who apparently told him about my mint phobia.
Tonight, after everyone had gone to bed, I began to hear tiny, sweet-breathed cookie voices whispering my name. They even rolled the R. And the D was so soft as to be almost inaudible. The milk practically poured itself as I went to the cupboard to answer the call. Filled with anticipation, I opened the door to find… nothing buy mint cookies! What kind of family treats their ever-loving Dad like that? I provide, I chauffeur, I cook, I hold them when they hurt, I protect them when they’re scared, I pray over them when they can’t sleep, and they stock mint cookies. This is the respect I get? This is how you repay me?
I am not angry. I am not annoyed. I am not irritated. I am not disappointed. I am not outraged. I am just so so hurt.

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