My house has been filled with cookies for the past four days. Rob has been baking up a storm. In fact, he's baking right now, as I write this. It's out of control.
Tonight we had dinner with my parents, and brought--what else?--cookies for dessert. Westley watched us eat them quietly, and I broke off a piece of mine before he thought to reach for it. As I handed him the brown-sugary half moon, I realized that he'd never had a cookie before.
"That's a cookie," I told him.
He took a big bite and made a "what the--?" face and looked at Rob.
Rob did what he always does when Westley takes too big a bite of something soft, and offered him a sip from the little juice glass of soy milk my mom always sets out for Westley.
"There ya go, dude! Milk and cookies!" my dad realized excitedly. "Now he's a real kid."
As though to celebrate his sudden real-kiddedness, Westley took his cookie piece, dunked it in his little glass of soy milk, and took a bite.
This is not a learned behavior. I'm almost certain that Westley has never seen anyone dunk a cookie. I don't dunk cookies (all those soggy crumbs in the bottom of the glass? Bleh!), and Rob waits until Westley goes to bed before breaking out his favorite ABCs. I can only assume that this is instinct. My father is more correct than he realizes, and that cookie-dunking knowledge is an important developmental milestone on the road to true "kid" status. Westley is becoming a kid. He already blows raspberries. I should be the lookout for other kid-essential skills.
When he pops his cheek, I'll know for sure.
George Carlin has been gone for six months already, and I still miss him.