Some things never change.

When he was small, he knew how to wear me down to get what he wanted.
"Cookie?"
"No. No cookie."
"Cookie?"
"No. You're not getting a cookie."
"Cookie?"
"Nope. No cookie."
"Cookie? Cookie coookie coookie? Coooooooooooooooookie!!?? Cooookie?!?? Cookie cookie cookie?"
Three hours later, I'd hand him a cookie just to shut him up.

Recently, I realized he hasn't stopped employing the tactic that works so well for him. He's only become more subtle at it, even if his level of desperation determines his level of patience. A few weeks ago we drove past a Subway, a sandwich shop chain restaurant. "I haven't had a chicken bacon ranch in a long time."
"That's nice," I said.
The next day he said, "You know what I could go for? A chicken bacon ranch."
"And I could go for a million dollars." I said.
A few days later, "I am SO craving a chicken bacon ranch."
"And I am SO craving chocolate," I said.
After a bit he started chanting rhythmically, of course, "Chicken bacon ranch, chicken bacon ranch, chicken bacon ranch, ranch, chicken bacon ranch, bacon bacon, chicken. Chicken chicken bacon. Bacon chicken ranch. Chicken bacon ranch..."

On the way to musical practice, I bought him a chicken bacon ranch sandwich. Hey, the kid needed to eat dinner, right?

Having learned his lesson so well (mom is a huge softy), Joshua pushed his advantage yet again tonight. Because Joshua and my father have a drum lesson on Monday nights, the two of them usually go together. They also usually get a milkshake after their lesson at one of the many places near the music store. This week, however, I had to take The Boy to his lesson because my father is soaking in the sun in Florida. As expected the begging commenced the minute we stepped out onto the porch of the music store.
"You know," he said. "Pop and I always get a milkshake."
"That's nice," I said. I was fully anticipating I would stop somewhere for a milkshake. I knew there was no way I could really win against his charm, but I was not about to give the kid the satisfaction of knowing right away. I decided to play with him a little more. He decided the game was on.
"Yeah. We could stop for a milkshake."
"In case you haven't noticed? I'm not your grandfather."
"But you could still get me a milkshake."
"Notice how I do not have gray hair, yet. Nor do I sport a beard."
"So what you're trying to say is, you're not Pop."
"Exactly."
"What does that have to do with getting me a milkshake?"
"Everything. It has everything to do with getting a milkshake," I said as we happened to pass a Sheetz, a gas station/mini-mart/sandwich shop.
"I'd even settle for a milkshake from Sheetz," he said looking out the window.
"How about Carpet Mart. Would you settle for Carpet Mart?" I said as we passed the store.
"Sure. I'd settle for that..." he paused, "If they had milkshakes. Hey, where are we going anyway?"
"The Mega-Monster-Super-Duper-Craft-Store," I said. "Your sister has oil based paint all over her. I have to go pick up some non-toxic paint remover."

We pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, while Joshua said, "Milkshake. I bet this store has something like a milkshake. Or candy. I'd settle for candy."
"You're not getting candy."
"Oh look," He said reading a sign on the front of the craft store, "Framing. That's one letter switch away from 'farming' and farms have cows. Cows make milk. You use milk to make a milkshake. Can I have a milkshake?"
"Interesting logic," I said chasing him into the store while attempting to give him a noogie. "I'll have to ponder that one for a moment.

We wandered to the art department to find the paint remover/thinner and thus commenced the milkshake chanting. "Milkshake. Milkshake. Milkshake...Hey, you could get a milkshake. I could get a milk shake. Look frames. Remember? frames are just a few letters away from farms...farms...milk? Milk...Milkshake? Remember?" I ignored the chatter all the way to the checkout counter.

Thirty seconds into standing in line to pay for my purchase, he realized he was holding the trump card all along. He whipped out his wallet and said, "Oh hey. I have my own money. I can get candy!"
"No. No. No. I'll buy you your milkshake. Put it back." Dang. I wanted the element of surprised as I pulled into the ice cream shop. However, he had forced my hand, rather cleverly, I might add, so I was forced to give it up.
"Yay!" he cheered.
"Brat," I said.
He beamed so bright, I'm pretty sure he blinded the clerk.

So call me a softy, a wimp, or a pushover. I can't deny that it's just so hard to resist those big brown eyes. I melt every. single. time. Just like that triple scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough he opted for, instead of his milkshake...