A portrait of addiction

On our way to church Sunday morning, Ethan asked the inevitable question: "Gums?"

My mom hasn't yet figured out to either quit buying the expensive stuff or buy an extra pack of cheap gum to carry around, because as soon as Ethan sees her he asks for "gums."

"One piece," she insists. But he's learned to get around that caveat by obediently spitting out what he's chewing (instead of swallowing it; a small victory), then asking, "One piece?" He goes through about six one pieces per car ride with Nana.

Sunday, he'd chewed about four pieces in as many minutes of whatever that space-age-looking gum that comes in a black pack is called before Mom put her foot down and said no more. (She's a stern disciplinarian and that is in no way a sarcastic remark.)

"Me hode it," Ethan said. He insisted that he could resist temptation if only she'd let him hold the pack.

For about 30 seconds he held it innocently, then slowly lifted the flap revealing the precious bounty inside.

"Me lookin'," he explained.

"Just looking, no touching," Nana reminded him.

Slowly, slowly he lifted the marvelous sticks of wonder to his nose, then inhaled deeply. Before Mom could even get out a word of warning, Ethan had snapped the flap closed and stuffed the pack down the side of his car seat, where it couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

"Nana! Don' talkin' a me about it!" he admonished her. He had prevailed, it was done, and he was through discussing it.

And he didn't even ask for another piece. Until the car ride home.