Klepto

Owen, age 4

Part I

Apparently, I’ve been robbed.

It’s the beginning of summer and I’m trying to buy swim goggles for my children. I haven’t actually purchased the goggles yet, because as soon as I open my wallet, my blood goes cold with the discovery that it’s completely empty.

Lying limply on the counter, my eviscerated wallet reminds me of a gutted fish. It’s unnerving and unnatural to look at.     

“Oh my God,” I say to the lady behind the register, trying to tamp down my rising panic. “Someone stole from my wallet. Everything is gone.” 

“Should I call the police?” she offers. She is very compassionate, but I don’t know how to answer her. I was prepared to buy three pairs of swim goggles, not deal with an act of thievery. While waiting for my response, she helpfully tells me that she can put the goggles on hold until I can find a way to pay for them.

I rub my throbbing temples and wonder how and when someone could have stolen from me. My 7-year-old daughters, who have been watching the scene unfold, are solicitous. My 4-year-old son is avoiding me.

My 4-year-old son is avoiding me.

I level my laser-like gaze on him and notice that he is trying very hard to act as if everything is normal and fine. Damn if everything is normal and fine! I can see right through his charade.

I tell the lady behind the register that I’ll be back. I haul my son from the store, my daughters trailing behind. When we get out on the sidewalk, the inquisition begins.

“Did you steal from Mommy’s wallet?” I ask him, in the scary, gravelly voice I employ when I’m furious.

“No,” he whispers.

“DID YOU STEAL FROM MOMMY’S WALLET?!” I repeat. I swear that steam is pouring from my ears.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Thank you for being honest, Owen,” I say, kneeling on the cement so we can talk without making a scene in public. Except I suspect it might be too late for that.

“You cannot steal from people’s wallets. You cannot take things that don’t belong to you, especially when they’re important things like credit cards and money and driver’s licenses. Do you understand?” He nods.

My son has taken many things from me – namely my sanity, patience and composure – but nothing has been as alarming as his stealing from my wallet. So I go a little over the top.  

“Without money and credit cards, I can’t buy you swim goggles, candy or new shoes,” I explain. “And without my driver’s license, I can get in a lot of trouble. What if I got pulled over for speeding and I didn’t have my driver’s license? The police officer would get angry, and I could go to jail. Do you want me to go to jail?”

We agree that it would be far from ideal if I went to jail. We discuss the importance of not taking other people’s things. Then we conclude that we’ll never steal anything from Mommy’s wallet again.

We drive home, and Owen retrieves my driver’s license, money, Papa Murphy’s punch cards (why do I have so many of them?), etc. Everything has been snugly stowed in his prized treasure box under his bed. I confiscate the treasure box and delineate the rest of his consequences.

Later, we return to the swimming store and I procure the goggles, reflecting on what a good learning experience this has been for Owen. I handled the situation really well, I think, patting myself on the back. I’m glad we got this stealing thing worked out. Way to go, Laura!

I bask in my success, which ends up being quite temporary.

Part II

It’s three days later. We are at the library, where each of my children has collected a chin-high stack of books that they can’t wait to read when they get home. 

We head to the check-out, trying to keep our unwieldy towers from toppling. I open my wallet to get out my library card. Much to my tremendous displeasure, I find that it’s empty. But this time, there is one lone survivor of the ambush: my driver’s license.

I tow my howling children from the library, their books only to be re-shelved by irritated librarians. I console myself with the thought that, although my sweet kleptomaniac son will probably end up in jail someday, at least he didn’t want me to go.