thin mint pristine

When I handed my son the thin mint Girl Scout cookie he shook it, then padded down the hall clasping it in both hands.  A minute later he was admiring it at arm’s length as he traced circles with it in the air.

“Eat it,” I coaxed him.  He switched it between his hands once, twice, then set it on top of the jack-in-the-box and scolded it, finger pointing

“Look, these are for eating,” I said, picking up a thin mint and popping it in my mouth.  No effect: now he was squeezing his between both palms, face tensing like weightlifter, the chocolate coating becoming gooey.

“Here,” I said, directing his hand to his mouth.  He looked away.  No matter how hard I tried he kept his face averted, lips tight.

“Fine.”  I pulled the cookie from his hand, took a small bite out of it, then presented it back.  “See?”

You’d have thought I bit the head off a kitten.

Upon seeing the broken symmetry of his perfect dark disc he exploded into tears.  This was good: mouth wide open, eyes shut.  I snapped off a piece of cookie and popped it in his mouth

After a little while he calmed enough to give the mysterious object some oral exploration, whereupon he instantly began a vigorous chew.

I chuckled and turned to find my wife.  “Honey, you should’ve seen this,” I called — but by the time I turned back to my son the rest of the cookie was gone.

Stuffed in his mouth.