Just Say Yes
Written By Sandra Tsing Loh
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I'm not going to sugarcoat this, and anyway, I don't know the politically correct wording. The fact is, I have an impossible 4-year-old. For the record, my older daughter, Madeline, has turned out beautifully. A proud kindergartener, Madeline trots off to school in the morning with her neat princess backpack. In the afternoon she returns with elaborate lectures to the family about the rhyming of -at words and the wonders of healthy food. Meanwhile, in the background, little Susannah is stag leaping (aiiee!!!) through the house in scarves she has made of toilet paper. In the bathtub she is shampooing and brushing her pink fuzzy unicorn with my hairbrush (eeew). In a hurry to get dressed one morning, I discover that Susannah has unscrewed all the knobs from my dresser drawers and hidden them around the bedroom as a treasure hunt. It's like living with a raccoon.
And God forbid you actually tell her not to do something. The other weekend, at a barbecue thrown by a childless couple, my thought was to comfortably sequester my girls in the master bedroom with its giant TV, kid videos I'd brought in, and a gently whirling fan over the bed. Which for some complicated kitty litter/old electrical wiring/air circulatory reason could not be turned off. Plumping pillows, I told the kids: "Please don't jump on the bed." I turned to insert the video and upon turning back around saw Susannah hopping, hopping, hopping on the bed. "Just little jumps," she said. "Not very high." Then she flung her arms up and, with a big grin, took a sudden giant leap toward the fan. I screamed.
As a result of our girls' yin-yang duality, our parental disciplinary style has evolved along two tracks. Madeline — Princess Fragilina — collapses into tears upon being corrected, mostly, I think, in the shock and embarrassment of the A student being awarded a B. My husband and I cannot believe the evasions that come out of our mouths. "It's not that I'm angry," Mike will murmur, in a voice so indoors it's practically in its own pillowy alcove. "It's just that while I'm eating, your sudden shrieks startle me." When, through gusty sobs, Madeline explains that she shrieked only because they were playing the running game, I'll intone with gentle Buddhist wisdom: "Well, then, let's look at that. Perhaps it's the running game that's to blame." By contrast, here's a typical speech to Susannah: "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! If you don't get down off that wall NOW, my friend, I PROMISE you you're going to FALL, crack your SKULL open, eyeballs are going to go rolling EVERYWHERE, and you know what your father and I will be doing? LAUGHING. We're going to be just standing here LAUGHING. Do you even HEAR me? NO!"
Recently my friend Gail, upon witnessing one of my distinctly non-Hallmark moments, asked me a curious question. She wanted to know if I'd ever counted how many times in a day I say no to Susannah. (Gail is a child psychologist and a grandmother.) "I would just invite you," Gail says, in her trademark mellifluous tone that instantly calms, "to try one week of just saying yes to Susannah."
"Yes?" I repeat. The word actually tastes dangerous. "Saying yes to Susannah?" I picture it and feel a tightening in my chest. "It would be like releasing her so she can sprint right onto the freeway!"
"Well, don't do that," Gail replies sensibly. "But with every other request, instead of that automatic no, just put a yes there. See what happens."
Monday morning
Well, all right. Saying yes — it's just for a week. So the morning begins as usual. Maddy's already off to school, I'm toasting a waffle, and Susannah is busily rummaging around for the Kitty Cat Glitter Blouse and the Pleated Red Skirt (KCGBATPRS). It's her school uniform. Of course, Susannah is the only kid there who has a school uniform. All the other preschoolers vary their outfits.
Normally, I'd say no to the dreaded KCGBATPRS combination because it is in the laundry hamper, and she and I would man our usual battle stations, doing our 8 a.m. tug-of-war on legs and arms and sleeves, but not today. Which is to say, Yes. (Ouch!) I allow my daughter to go to preschool wearing clothes excavated from the dirty laundry, along with sandals on the wrong feet (Velcro on the inside is what feels "natural" to Susannah). It's painful, but I do this without argument, and I suppose the only thing harmed is my ego. (I could always send a mass e-mail to the other parents: "For the record, we do own a washing machine. And yes, we have bought Susannah other clothes. Photos of cute alternate outfits she will never wear are attached. Enjoy.")
Tuesday morning
Standing with her lunchbox in front of her classroom, with its colorful toys and cheerful mobiles, Susannah suddenly wavers, turns to me, and . . . oh no, here it comes. All year these preschoolers have barreled kamikazelike onto the circle rug, flinging lunchboxes into cubbies with nary a backward glance. But recently, for some unknown reason, like drooping leaves, they've all caught clingy disease. The doorway is crowded with lumbering two-headed, four-legged parent/child beings grappling, pleading, weeping. "I don't want to go to school, Mommy," Susannah whispers breathily in my ear. "I want to come with youuuu." "Well — all righty, then!" I reply, sweeping her up. Yes.
In slow motion, a sea of parents' and children's heads bob up in a kind of disbelief. I do feel like a betrayer. We parents all know — we've literally seen through the glass — that within two minutes of leaving them, our children forget us. Plus, they're in group training for real school next year, where attendance isn't so optional. On the other hand, it's just for a day. Okay, in point of fact, it turns out to be four days — Tuesday through Friday.
