“Max, we’re leaving!” “Abigail, time to go home!”
“Come on, guys!”
It was late afternoon in the park on a lovely late-winter day, and grown-ups had begun gathering their charges.
A tow-headed child, presumably Max, ran to his nanny. She zipped up his jacket, and the two of them walked away, waving at everyone. A little girl in chic patent-leather boots jumped off a swing and went to her mother, who was pushing a pram.
“C’mon, Abigail, time to go!” that child’s mother called a second time.
Abigail’s ponytail bobbed in the breeze as she ran to the other side of the playground and hunkered down behind a slide. This was disobedience, and no mistake, but it had been a lovely day and some friskiness was to be expected.
“Abi-gaail!” the woman sang, leaning forward and putting her hands on her knees. “Time to go-oo!”
The ponytail jogged about a bit, as if laughing, but neither it nor the person attached to it came out of hiding.
“OK,” the mother said, standing up again. Switching to a businesslike tone, she called “Abby, bring me your jacket, will you? It’s over by the swing set. Just grab it and we’ll go.” In this, she was using the “I’m going to pretend I don’t even notice that you are defying me” technique, which, when it works, gives a malefactor time to relent before there’s open conflict.
(There’s a version of this that I used when my son was a toddler. If he was standing at the top of a flight of stairs and you made eye contact with him, he’d catapult himself joyfully at you, whether you were close enough to catch him or not. The only way to prevent the launch was keep your eyes averted, as if approaching a wolf or a lion, until you were close enough to intercept him in midair. It was an “I’m going to pretend I don’t notice that you are about to kill both of us by knocking us down the stairs” approach.)
The ponytail didn’t move. So the woman raised her voice and raised the ante. “Gosh, I’m ready for a snack! C’mon, Abby, let’s get something to eat. Maybe chocolate cookies!”
This was getting embarrassing.
“Oh well,” the mother sighed. “I guess I’ll be eating allllll the cookies. Yum yum! Come on, Abigail. You don’t want me to eat alllll the cookies, do you?”
The mother took a few steps toward the crouching girl. “You love chocolate cookies,” she pointed out.
Apparently, Abigail did not love chocolate cookies — or else Abigail knew she’d get one whether or not she minded her mother. Either way, she didn’t budge.
“I’m going to count to three,” the poor woman announced: “One … two. …”
Other adults in the park were by this time ostentatiously using the “I’m pretending not to notice your humiliating parenting predicament” technique, looking anywhere but at the Abigail drama while sneaking fascinated peeks.
The slanting sunshine gleamed on the recalcitrant ponytail as the mother foolishly played a card that even she must have known would not succeed.
“All right, then. Goodbye Abigail! I’m going home!” She began slowly walking away. “Aaabi-gaaaail! I’m leaving without you. …”
It didn’t fool anyone.
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Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
