Battle of Wills

Dad here; I think I’m getting the hang of this whole “grandparenthood” thing. At first I thought the answer was to just hang back for a bit and live vicariously through Jude, in that I could listen to the gooshy comments made by his Mojo and imagine they’re still about me.
Hey, the older I get, the better I was.
Them the Jude Bear and I got this little arrangement worked out, where he decides that I need to do things, and I go do them. Between Jude, Mom, Oba, Charlie, and the rest of the inmates at the Casa, I spend my meager life scurrying around like a peon doing the bidding of my betters.
But sometimes a cosmic finger tips the scales a bit in my favor, and I see a faint glimmer of the man I used to be, and today was one of those days. Jude and I have recently been involved in a Cold War of sorts, full of trickery, secrets and espionage and other underhanded hijinks. We are both jockeying for control of an object that gives the holder ultimate control of the whole relationship, and no, it’s not the remote.
In this case, it’s the pacifier.
I’ve tried to explain it to him as “how do you expect to be a free spirited adventuresome motorcyclist with a nuk nuk stuck in your mug?” To which he replies “a real free-spirited motorcyclist doesn’t give a rip what others think of what he has stuck in his mug”.
Ouch.
No matter how far it’s buried in the bottom of the diaper bag, that little goober will dig it it out like a hog rooting for truffles. I’ve considered every alternative imaginable to keep Jude from his Precious, including an old walk-in bank vault with giant sliding time locks, but I never follow through. Because it’s an exercise in futility; in the battle of wits, I’m bringing a switch to a gun fight.
But today it backfired on the pocket Napoleon. He came self-importantly stomping into the living room clad only in tractor slippers and a diaper; score one for the old man in the uniform department. He stopped in mid-stomp as he realized he was soooo busted; he had his paccy stuffed in his grill.
So here it was, the final showdown. The two adversaries locked eyes from across the room, and the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the old grandfather clock. Even the dogs had the sense for once to stay out of the conflict. The battle of wills continued until the first hints of a grin began to creep around the edges of the pacifier, and the Jude Bear ruefully turned and trudged back into the living room and the waiting diaper bag.
It must be said, it was my finest hour.