Okay, I’ll admit it.  On September 8th I danced through the house singing the kids are back in school to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s, “The Boy’s are Back in Town.”  Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children. But there’s peace in my kingdom again, at least from 8 a.m. – 2:30 p.m., the Queen rules.

The kingdom was severely rocked last week though when my 7 and 8-year olds came home toting a school fundraiser. They were asked to sell cookie dough at fifteen bucks a pop. Two kids, one each, that’s thirty dollars, I thought. For cookies?! It was a bit excessive. After all, could they really be better than Chips Ahoy? I can get two packages of those on sale for $5.  And they’re already baked.

My son didn’t want to hear about it. Turns out, it wasn’t the cookies or the fundraiser that he was interested in.  It was the mini refrigerator he’d win if he sold enough units to reach Level 9.  My daughter coveted a stuffed bear at Level 4.

I glanced through the paperwork to see just how much cookie dough I’d have to buy for his mini refrigerator and her stuffed toy.  It didn’t take long before I realized it was much more dough than I was going to spend.

The prince pitched a royal fit.  His crying and screaming reached a higher pitch when I explained that he’d have to continue using my Frigidaire. Nothing I could say would pacify him. Not even the promise of his own special space on a lower shelf in the family fridge.

“Okay JJ, if you want that little refrigerator you have to sell one-hundred-seventy units to get to Level 9.  Do you know how much that will cost?” I asked, handing him a calculator.  “One-hundred-seventy times fifteen. Do the math.”

His little fingers gingerly found the numbers and he paused while trying to read the calculator window.  “Twenty-five dollars and fifty cents Mamma,” he responded.

“Don’t think so,” I corrected him, “That’s twenty five hundred and fifty dollars.  Now let’s see how much Lara’s teddy will cost.” I couldn’t take the suspense so I swiped the calculator and punched in the numbers.  “Not bad, her bear will only cost $300.   So $2550 for you and $300 for your sister takes us to $2,850 for cookie dough. JJ, I can’t afford that.”

Struggling to turn this into some kind of lesson, I tried explaining fundraising basics. JJ didn’t care that the prizes were just a token for a greater good – raising money for the school. He wanted the refrigerator. Lara was just in it for the ride. She knew that if JJ got his refrigerator, she’d be adding a teddy to her collection without having to shed a tear.

I suggested we search for the prizes on eBay to see what they really cost.  Then, if JJ still wanted the refrigerator and Lara couldn’t live without the bear, they could purchase the toys with their own money.

JJ ran to the computer and typed in eBay.com. “They don’t have the one I want Mama,” he said after glancing through several pages of mini refrigerators, the majority costing under $100.

“Okay JJ,” I said.  “Do you want to close your savings account, sell all your toys and forgo allowance for the next 15 years so you can spend $2,550 on a refrigerator that costs under $100?”  I prayed he wouldn’t call my bluff.  That would open a whole new conversation about rhetorical questions, and most likely escalate the situation.

“Let me think about that,” he responded tentatively.

It’s been a week and JJ hasn’t mentioned the refrigerator. I’m betting it’s a thing of the past. And I’m pleased that the experience seems to have taught him a life lesson.

JJ may not have learned the value of a dollar – but he did learn the value of his dollars.