Caught As A Teen: I Was The World’s Worst Shoplifter
I don’t know how my son perfected his talent by the age of two
I was a good teenager — by basic standards, at least.
That is, if not blowing up drains with some fancy acid stolen from Chemistry class qualifies as being good. True story. Although, it’s not mine to tell.
But that didn’t stop me from pushing boundaries or getting into trouble occasionally — like that infamous afternoon when my friend and I sneaked out of school and went shoplifting.
We casually walked into our local grocery shop — just around the corner from our house. A place my family regularly did our food shopping and where everybody knew our names.
This should’ve been the first red flag — bright enough to burn my eyes. But at the time, I didn’t even know what a red flag was.
As we stood at the sweet aisle, I looked at my friend with a nervous grin. My hands were sweating.
The truth was that I’d never done anything against the law before. A criminal instinct was simply not in my DNA. But it felt exciting, and my friend and I were buzzing.
Suddenly, the people who had been browsing the shelves just moments earlier dispersed. The aisle was empty. ‘This is good,’ we thought, and we took it as a sign from the universe.
Not that the universe had anything to do with our questionable intentions.
Dismissing the pounding of my heart against my ribcage, I reached out with a clammy hand, and with the speed of a python, snatched a tiny Easter egg from the box on the shelf. The chocolate landed in my coat pocket as I waited for my friend to do the same.
Laughing, we ran while stuffing the chocolate into our mouths. It felt so liberating to be a villain.
But not for long, as I soon found out.
At dinner, as we sat at the table, my dad stopped me in my tracks. He did it nonchalantly, discussing how stealing is unacceptable and all criminals should go to jail.
The fork froze in my hand, and I could feel the heat creeping up my neck.
Did he know something?
I forced down a piece of carrot, almost choking on it, not daring to make eye contact. Was there a way to disappear? My appetite was gone.
Based on my father’s philosophy, I belonged in jail — a concept that had never crossed my mind before.
Nonetheless, I didn’t confess my sins. I stared at the casserole on my plate instead. It seemed like a safer option than telling the truth.
Typical teenage attitude.
So, when we finished eating, I withdrew to my room, away from embarrassing conversations. But soon, my dad knocked on the door.
His eyes bore into mine as he sat on the edge of the bed and finally asked, “Do you want to tell me something?”
I did not.
Getting found out was not part of our master plan. But I could feel an avalanche forming, ready to come crashing down and take me with it.
It turns out that Dad went to the shop to get some bread that evening — just a loaf of white. Unfortunately for me, he left with the belief that he had a gangster for a daughter.
The shop assistants snitched on us.
There was no point in denying it; my fiery cheeks gave me away. So, I admitted what he already knew, that I’d stolen from a shop — I was a disrespectful daughter, a criminal in the making.
I deserved to be in the nearest prison cell.
On this ominous day, I came to terms with some hard truths.
- Being a thief is a risky business.
- Disappointing my parents felt awful.
- I was the most untalented criminal the world had ever seen.
I got caught for nicking a 2p worth chocolate egg. I couldn’t have been more pathetic if I tried.
Fast forward a few decades, and I was pushing my son in a stroller while shopping in a local supermarket for essentials.
He flailed his chubby legs in the air while babbling to fellow shoppers in gibberish only he could understand.
In response, the shoppers cooed all over him.
“What an angelic face,” a lady commented as we stopped to check out some toys. “How flexible,” said another when my son pulled his squishy drumsticks up to his ears.
Nobody knew — not even me — that this was his distraction technique: the cute smile, the angelic face, and the fancy leg lifts. All of that was to mask a criminal mastermind.
When we got home, I changed him into his bear onesie, and as I was about to put his trousers away, a small bar of chocolate fell out of the pocket.
“What’s this?” I asked in surprise. I did not recall buying any sweets, so I searched the dungarees to see if there were more.
There were more.
A piece of red metal was sticking out of the other pocket — a shiny matchbox that I also did not pay for.
My son stared at me, his intense blue eyes sensing that something was off.
“Where did you get these?” I queried, holding my findings in one hand.
He hesitated, and with the simplicity only a toddler can convey, he replied, “Mine”.
He was five when he fell in love with whiteboard pens. They were more fun than crayons or coloured pencils. The teachers used them at school.
My son had to have them. In fact, life was no longer worth living without them.
So, he asked for a new colour weekly, which I dutifully purchased.
You’ll agree that I couldn’t hide my surprise when I found more in his fleece pocket, his bag, and generally around the house.
“Whose is this?” I asked him one day retrieving a green one from his bookbag. He glanced at me briefly and said, “I found it on the field”. And with that, the discussion ended as far as he was concerned.
A slight clarification: he was referring to the school grounds, not a field with grazing cows.
I let it go at first; pity markers weren’t going to cause me sleepless nights. But eventually, I raised an eyebrow.
In the following weeks, I realized that the ‘field’ was producing unusually high numbers of whiteboard pens. And always the colours my son required.
By the time the academic year ended, we hoarded the school’s entire supply. Enough to start a stationery business.
It was time to investigate.
“Did you steal these?” I asked him, pointing at the pen collection — my face as strict as I could muster. It was still not enough to scare him, though.
“No,” he replied, too soon and too fast, showing a sudden interest in his hands.
“Can you look at me, please?”
He eventually raised his head and, without the slightest trace of guilt, said, “They have plenty at school.”
At that moment, I remembered the Easter egg and the way my dad handled the situation — with calm and empathy. Without judgement, yet conveying the message loud and clear.
Namely, that stealing is under no circumstances ever acceptable. No matter how tempting an Easter egg or a matchbox might be.
But children sometimes nick things because of their lack of understanding and impulse control.
This put my mind at ease. It became my mantra. My ally. An excuse for my offspring — that this shall too pass.
And it did. But before that happened, the field started to produce a high volume of loom bands.
And my son ’found’ a whole bag of them.
Thank you for reading!
Thank you, Sally Prag, for your helpful suggestions and for publishing this story.
