An Imagination is a Terrible Thing to Waste

One day my husband and I were traveling across the Nevada desert with our boys--ages nine and eight. Now this was before the days of DVD players in the car. We had to keep the boys entertained the old-fashioned way with silly songs and car games. But silly car games don't work too well in the Great Basin. At some point, the games stopped and the boys were left to their imaginations.

My husband and I carried on an adult conversation in the front seat. But we were interupted by a tussle that began in the back seat. I told the boys to "settle down," but that didn't work.

After a couple of minutes, I said, "What seems to be the problem, boys?"

Evan, the oldest, said, clearly upset, "Quinlan made cookies, and he won't share."

(At this point in the story I should point out, not only did we not have a DVD player in the car, we did not have an oven in the car.)

So I say, trying to stay detatched from the rediculousness, "Work it out." And I returned to the conversation between my husband and me. But the tussle didn't stop.

Realizing that I had to do something, I opened my hand and thrust it between the front, bucket seats, and toward the back seat.

"Give me the cookies," I said firmly.

Reluctantly, Quinlan put the imaginary cookies in my open hand. Then he folded his arms hard into a pout, which only made Evan proud of his work.

"If you can't share, neither of you will have any cookies," I said, triumphantly taking the imaginary cookies away from my eight-year old.

In the quiet created by my pouting boys, my husband and I continued our conversation and drove peacefully into Winemucca.