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Posted Monday, June 29, 2009

When it comes to figuring out life with a toddler, parents tend to be either Read-Up-On-It types or Follow-Your-Common sense types. Sophie, the friendly Polish woman who cuts my hair, is a common senser. Sitting in her chair, I'll tell her about the latest issue with Larkin that Molly and I are trying to hash out. Maybe I'll mention an article I read; I'll sum up the pros and cons of this or that policy. What does she think? I'll ask.

"Don't worry so much," Sophie invariably says. "Just do what you think is right. Larkin will do fine." There's always a tinge of friendly reproach. You're making mountains out of molehills, is the idea. Take your head out of the parenting books and just use your common sense.

The problem is, again and again with Larkin I find myself in situations where I seem to have no common sense, no feel -- at all --  for whether what I'm doing is good or a disaster. I'm not talking about big decisions, just the run-of-the-mill conflicts that come up all the time. I'll find myself doing battle with Larkin, and suddenly feel totally unsure what my goal is and whether it's a worthwhile one. I'm calling up more troops, even as I get this sinking feeling.

Here's an example. One afternoon Lark and I are coming back from doing errands. As we climb out of the car, it's raining lightly, but she doesn't want to go in the house. "How about I get our umbrellas?" I suggest.
 "Sure!" she says.

 I duck inside and grab my big Amherst College umbrella, which I got at a reunion a couple of years ago, and her little green frog umbrella. We open them and march around the driveway for a few minutes. Then Larkin has an idea: "Daddy, you take my umbrella and I'll take yours, OK?" So we switch, and it's funny for a minute or two. But her umbrella is too small for me, and mine too heavy and cumbersome for her; she keeps dipping it down toward the driveway. Time to switch back, I say.

 "I don't want to switch back!" she says.  I explain that mine will get damaged if she keeps dropping it. I'd like her to give it back to me, please. "No," she wails, "I want to use this one!"
I try everything: leaving her and sitting up on the porch (she doesn't care); going inside by myself (ditto). Look, I tell her finally, you're messing up my umbrella. Give it back to me.
 Now we're both dug in. I'm gritting my teeth, Larkin's stamping her feet. In the end, I seize my umbrella as she yowls in outrage. And even as I tear it out of her hands, I ask myself, Is this really worth it? What's so terrible about her using my umbrella, anyway? I mean, sure, she might get it a little bit dirty, but do I really think she's going to destroy it? And if not, is getting my umbrella back really worth this pitched battle?
 It's too late to reverse course. But I'm at sea, completely mired in doubt.

Molly always sees these situations more clearly than I do. "Larkin has her own umbrella," she reminded me later that night, when I told her about the interaction. "Why should she have yours? She has to learn about possessions. She can't just have everything she wants."

 The other example is a situation that comes up all too often. I call it Extracting the Apology. It begins when Larkin does something willful, like spilling her milk on purpose. I scold her, and she spazzes out, wailing and flailing. Maybe her arm or hand hits me on the face, that sort of not-entirely-not-on-purpose smack that can be so enraging. "OK," I'll mutter, "that's it." And I cart her upstairs to her room for a "serious" timeout.

 There's a well-established choreography to what follows. Larkin yells for a while, throw some toys around. Eventually she calms down. I go back up. "Now, lets talk about what happened," I say. "Why did I bring you upstairs? What did you do?"

 Questioning her this way is about fashioning an understanding of her behavior -- and eliciting an apology for hitting me. I know that these are proper goals. Teach right from wrong. Help your child know how to treat others. Discourage physical aggression. But in the middle of the catechism, I find myself wondering whether it's too much. There's something almost totalitarian about the encounter and my all-powerful position in it.

  Yes, I know how easy it is to feel that your 3-year-old is jerking you around, manipulating, provoking, even terrorizing you with her behavior.  But think about the cards we parents hold in our hands. Molly and I can (and do) physically remove Larkin from situations; imprison her in her room and close the gate; take cherished objects away from her; cancel or threaten to cancel activities both now and in the future; and on and on. All that, and an apology too?

"Sometimes I feel like a Stasi interrogator," I say to Molly later on. "We're always right. We always win. She always has to recant." There's something Stalinist about extracting the apology, I say. I'm not always sure it's worth it.
 Something Stalinist? Well, maybe I have been reading too many books. Larkin is a child, Molly reminds me. We are trying to form her. "If it takes punishment for her to learn not to throw her breakfast on the floor, or not to hit us, or not to kick Bert, it's not only worth it - it's what we have to do."

She's right, I know. It's what we have to do. Is that common sense... or did she read it somewhere?