Pop-Tart press

Busted.
I had no excuses, no alibis. I was busted. Guilty, as charged, of illegal use of a Pop-Tart.
Up until a few weeks ago, there were very few Pop-Tart related crimes in my household. Sure, if you whipped one Frisbee-style at someone you might find yourself on the business end of a time-out, but for the most part, Pop-Tarts were a fairly law-abiding member of the Gibbons food family.
Then my wife looked down. And when she looked down, she saw our carpet. Our carpet that had been cleaned a few months back. This did not look like a carpet that had been cleaned a few months back. Rather, this looked like a carpet that chimps had used as a food fight arena.
And in a way, that is what happened, since Daddy is very bad about letting the kids bring their breakfast up to the playroom. Here’s the way the scenario usually plays out: I get up with the kids, get downstairs and realize that I am not ready for breakfast, but would spend some quiet time inside of a coffee mug reading the paper and surfing the net. So, I’ll get the kids some breakfast, usually waffles or pancakes or Pop-Tarts. Yes, I know Pop-Tarts are not the most healthy breakfast. Neither are chicken nuggets, but sometimes that’s what they get, because I haven’t the energy to argue at 7 a.m.
The kids even had their own special table that I set up for them. It was cool – Cool Daddy and the Cool Kids having a Cool Breakfast in the playroom. And then the cool stuff starting getting ground into the carpet.
So my wife decided the carpet would be cleaned, and from that point forward, there would be a few ground rules:
1. No food upstairs.
2. No shoes upstairs.
3. No dogs upstairs.
I took issue with the first two, because it was implied this included me. “Yes, you too,” she said, clearing that right up. I told her that this was not fair because (a) I am quite responsible if I, say, want to bring some cold pizza upstairs as a snack and (b) as I have written in previous columns, I have this weird thing where I hate going around without shoes on. My wife told me I could keep my slippers at the edge of the stairs, and those could be my “upstairs shoes.” I told her that I was really good about making sure my shoes were clean. She told me that I have the biggest feet in the house, and am therefore responsible for the biggest tracks. I had no argument. I sulked into my slippers and went along my pizza-less way upstairs.
So fast forward a few weeks later. I had gotten pinched a couple of times for having my shoes upstairs, which was an easy mistake to make. We would be heading out, and a light would be on upstairs, so I would run upstairs to turn it off, not even thinking. My wife realized this was an honest mistake. But we were cruising good. Until the morning I was sold out.
It started innocently enough. My wife left with Allie for school, leaving The Dudes home to get ready. I was about to hop in the shower, when Parker asked if he could have a Pop-Tart for breakfast. No problem, I thought. “Can I eat it in your room and watch Disney?” he asked. I thought about it. How much harm can one Pop-Tart cause? I mean, if I set him up on the bed, tell him has to sit on a towel, and clean up afterwards, what can go wrong?
I get Parker situated and tell him the ground rules. “And remember, Parker, this is Daddy’s special treat for you. Let’s not let Mommy know our super special Pop-Tart secret, OK?”
“DEAL!” he said, sealing it with a high five.
So I’m getting out of the shower and I see my wife’s van pulling into the driveway. Odd, I thought. She must have forgotten something. At that point, Parker sees the van too, and goes sprinting downstairs. “Mommy’s here!!!” he says. I look over at the bed and see very clear evidence of a Pop-Tart breakfast. I work quickly to dispose of the evidence.
I head downstairs only to hear my son -- the one who had just made a high-five sealed deal with me -- say, “Daddy let me have Pop-Tarts upstairs!!!”
At this point, I considered going out a window and heading on to work, just until things cooled down. It occurred to me that I was wearing a towel, and that would probably be bad form.
So I peered downstairs only to catch my wife’s eye. I noticed she glanced as my feet to make sure I was not going to be charged twice.
“Look,” I stammered, “I was getting in the shower, and I wanted to make sure I could see...”
Her look told me not to finish. I was nailed. No point in arguing it.
I told her that it would not happen again, and I will work hard not to break that promise. If there is one valuable thing you can take from this, it’s don’t make deals with four-year-olds. I wonder if I can trust Allie...