9to5to9 » Boots’ story

Beware the player

Debra Legg — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 20:52:00 +0000

Due largely to the fact that Best Friend was watching and he didn't want to lose face, Boots agreed to get in the pool the first day of swim class. He wouldn't consent to go much further, though.

"I can't bweev under water," he protested. Our assurances that no one else can either didn't reassure him. "I need one of those tube thingies, with the glasses. Then I'll be able to bweev."

No dice, I said. Learn how to swim before you tackle the snorkel. I did relent on swim goggles - I hate water in my eyes, too - but I told him he could have them only if he put his head under water the next day.

He pouted, but he did at least agree to dunk himself. He blew bubbles, too. When he, Big Guy and I went to the pool later that afternoon, though, he refused to budge. "I can't bweev under water. I need a snuckle."

And so it went for a week. He'd do most of what the teacher asked, but he always reached a freak-out point during class. He'd find something he just didn't want to do, so he'd hang onto the side and caterwaul. Or he'd cry piteously when the teacher tried to tow him out.

"I can't do it! I'll dwon!"

"There is no 'I can't'," she'd respond. "Say, 'I'll try.' You can do it. You're a swimmer!"

"Yeah! We're swimmers!" Best Friend would add.

He'd do it then, though with a bit of lingering dramatic sniffing.

Then one day, toward the end of the class, he woke up in the middle of the night. "I had a bad dream, Mommy. There was a lot of water in it. Can I have a hug?"

I hugged my poor, frightened baby with all my heart. Maybe he shouldn't finish the class if he's that scared, I thought.

Unable to get back to sleep, I went downstairs to edit some video I'd shot during class that day. I'd positioned myself midway between Boots' and Big Guy's groups and took turns filming each. I was zoomed out, which meant Boots didn't know where I was looking.

And while he thought I wasn't looking ... he swam. He made it only a couple of yards under his own steam, but he definitely was bweeving. And he didn't dwon.

I showed him the video the next morning. His eyes got big.

"Wow. I can swim! I can swim!"

I don't rule out the possibility that this was news to him. There's every chance that he felt so awkward in the water that he really didn't know that he was indeed swimming.

I also don't rule out the possibility that the little rat fink was playing me.

"Can I have my snuckle now?"

"If you go to the big pool and swim without your life jacket," I replied. I'm not about to give it away after the performance I'd just witnessed on tape.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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Trying to get in the head of a 4-year-old

Debra Legg — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 21:15:07 +0000

Boots woke Monday morning with one of his best smiles, leaping out of bed and downstairs for breakfast. "HOORAY!!" he cheered. "It's soccer camp day!"

Even though he hadn't been particularly enthused during the indoor season - he liked it OK, but he didn't love it - he begged to go to a week-long soccer camp. So I wrote a hefty check and enrolled both of them.

By the time I arrived to pick him up at the end of the first session, he was plopped in the middle of the field, sniffing. Apparently there had been a run-in with another player who'd been a bit too rough - I heard the other kid come over and apologize. That didn't matter to Boots. Every little bump is a personal affront these days.

So he walked off the field vowing to quit soccer camp. Fine, I said, mentally groaning at the memory of the hefty check.

By afternoon, he was demonstrating dribbling skills he hadn't had before and showing off a game he'd learned. "Soccer camp is fun! I'm going back."

That lasted until time for camp to start this morning. He was fine just minutes before, playing happily with a friend. On his way to his corner of the field, though, he fell and scraped a hand. Scrape might be too strong a term. Scuffed is more like it. Seriously. He'd barely broken the skin.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh. I can't play now. I'm injured."

No amount of talking would convince him that amputation wouldn't be necessary and since soccer is played primarily with the feet anyway, he'd be OK.

"No. I quit soccer. Unless you stay," he said, looking around at many other parents who sit for two to three hours a day and watch the camp. I've explained many times why I can't be at school every day (work hours) but I can sit through baseball practice every night (not work hours). He doesn't accept that. Clearly, I don't love him as much as the omnipresent parents love their kids. Sometimes I wish I could be the omnipresent parent - he's never been as independent as Big Guy. Other times I wonder if that would do him a greater disservice in the long run.

He probably would have come around if I'd insisted that he stay, but it's not fair to the coaches and the other players. Not that the current situation is particularly fair to anyone either, and it's driving the both of us quite mad.

Boots begs to do an activity then quickly wants to quit. I pay for the activity then lose the money when he backs out.

Part of the problem is that he can't figure out what he wants, and neither can I. I often suspect that he only wants to in soccer, karate and baseball because he's seen how much Big Guy loves it and thinks it should be just as much fun for him. He takes it personally when it's not. Meanwhile, we've yet to find the pursuit that makes his little heart happy. Other than the Wii, and I'll be hanged if he's going to do that all day. I don't care if he doesn't take any extra classes or play any sports, but sitting 24-7 in front of a screen isn't going to be an option.

Today when we got home and he'd calmed down from his lengthy diatribe about rude mommies and the mean people at soccer camp, I went through the list of other classes available on post. "There's dancing and gymnastics and music class that you can try. You don't have to do something just because your brother is."

His eyes lit up, and he said he wanted to try dancing and gymnastics. I hope those classes aren't filled with rude people who are mean to him.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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Preschool graduation – go ahead and laugh

Debra Legg — Tue, 25 May 2010 19:24:02 +0000

The invitation set my snarkometer into overdrive when the teachers handed it to us that morning.

Preschool graduation. 4 p.m., May 19. Complete with a "commencement address." It had all the markings of a big to-do, in striking contrast to Big Guy's "low-key kindergarten graduation alternative" last year that some parents insisted on turning into a big to-do anyway. And here I hadn't even ordered Boots' class ring, let alone his calling cards.

I didn't exactly grumble - those duties were left to Big Guy, who was miffed that he'd never had a preschool graduation and had gotten stuck with a "low-key kindergarten graduation alternative." "I want to go back to preschool," he sniffed.

I did, though, roll my eyes heavily. Inwardly, at least. Outwardly, I gave every indication of looking forward to Boots' "congraduation," particularly the mysterious songs they'd been rehearsing for weeks. "It's a secret. Can't tell you. You have to come to the concert at the congraduation."

Fine. Congraduation it will be, though I still had issues with turning childhood celebrations into adult-sized events, quinceaneras that morph into mini weddings and first birthdays that require renting a hall included.

So we loaded into the car that day, Big Guy in his karate uniform because his class was shortly after the congraduation and Boots rushing to don his cap and gown because finding the karate uniform had made us late. If they play "Pomp and Circumstance" I'm going to shoot myself, I thought.

The opening notes played, and I regretted not owning a gun. Big Guy grumbled. "It's no fair!"

But then his face changed as Boots scampered up the aisle, a smile as wide as his graduation cap, his gown flapping behind him. "Awwwwwwwwwwww. Just look at that little boo. Isn't he so cute?" Big Guy said.

And he was. He was equally adorable as he danced and twirled to the stage, enthusiastically shakiing the chaplain and the director's hands on the way to getting his "cetificate." Then he pirouetted and bobbed his way off, his face wearing a megawatt smile and his tiny cetificate-clutching hand pumping in the air.

If he throws his cap in the air I'm going to gag, I thought before something disrupted my cynicism. It was the tiny tear in the corner of my eye and the lump in my throat. A slip of a boy was very, very happy at that moment as he celebrated a year of hard work and play. He'd made friends, he'd gone on field trips, he'd performed concerts, he'd learned. He was happy not because adults were imposing their standards, but because of the pure joy of childhood.

Can boys have quinceaneras? If so, deal me in.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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And Boots stood still

Debra Legg — Fri, 07 May 2010 17:47:39 +0000

(With apologies to Karma Wilson, whose "Bear" series is one of our favorites.)

When Big Guy got his yellow, he was one euphoric fellow.
Boots thought karate looked fun so he begged his mom a ton.
But Boots wouldn't stand still.

Pay attention, sensei would say, but that wasn't Boots' way.
He'd flop and he'd flutter, and all the while his mom would mutter.
"Whose kid is that?" she would say, 'til Big Guy gave it all away.
"He's yours," Big Guy would shout. Her secret, it was out
And Boots wouldn't stand still.

Kicking was a ball, but lack of balance made Boots fall.
He'd tumble and then laugh, enjoying each and every gaffe.
Punching, also fun. But then Boots would start to run.
Pay attention, sensei would plea. Boots would grin and ask "Who, me?"
And Boots wouldn't stand still.

Then one sad, sad day sensei took his belt away.
She'd given him three chances but Boots persisted with the dances.
"Earn it back," she told the lad, who didn't want it all that bad.
And Boots wouldn't stand still.

Belt test time arrived as Boots continued with his dives.
He'd mastered every move but couldn't find a groove.
Attention stance triggered wiggles. It inspired many giggles.
He'd jiggle and he'd twitch, then he'd think his mom's a witch.
BOOTS, YOU MUST. STAND. STILL.

It's only 30 seconds on the clock, but for Boots a mental block.
"You can do this," Mom would say. "You did it just the other day."
"No, I can't," he would retort, his patience oh-so short.
And Boots wouldn't stand still.

He tried and tried and tried until mother's brains were fried.
"Did I make it?" he would ask after 15 seconds passed.
"You're halfway there," she'd say. "You can try another day."
And Boots wouldn't stand still.

He dressed up in his gi, still no belt for all to see.
He wanted to earn it back so mother planned a new attack.
This brain, it must focus. This butt stays off the mat. These ears must listen closely. Then she gave his head a pat.

When it came Boots' turn, mother felt her stomach churn.
The seconds dragged like hours. Could Boots summon super powers?
His fingers flexed a bit, the usual precursor to a flit.
But on that magical day, Boots found another way.
His face was set in stone. He'd done it on his own.
And Boots stood still!

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.Similar Posts:

How to communicate what you don’t know the words to say

Debra Legg — Mon, 03 May 2010 20:57:57 +0000

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, Boots got to read his father the riot act via Skype this weekend.

"Why did you join the Army?" Boots asked the pixelated father on the computer screen. "I don't want you in the Army."

Dad chuckled appreciatively at his son's adamance. "I joined the Army so I could help people here, and so I can take care of you. So you'll have money to buy toys and food."

"I can get toys from my toy box," said Boots, who's never before in his life wavered at the prospect of new playthings. "We have food in the refrigerator. I want you in the Army at Fort Irwin, not Afghanistan."

It was cathartic for Boots, who has struggled to find ways to convey his loneliness. He's at an age when he knows something doesn't feel right, but he doesn't quite know how to voice the unease let alone find ways to deal with it.

With Big Guy, it was easy last year. He carried his dad's weighty Camelbak to school, and he watched the Lakers win, knowing it was making Dad happy.

Big Guy has more history with Dad, though. Boots was only three and a half when Dad left for basic training, and Dad's been gone more often than he's been around since that day. The Daddy Dolls and posters Boots crafted have helped some, but he's still too often at sea, tossed about on violent wave after wave of feelings he can't explain.

In many ways it's set him back years emotionally, as he's displayed stereotypical Terrible Twos behavior that he never displayed when he actually was 2. He's started hitting. He throws things. He's defiant.

Not all the time, mind you. He's mostly still the happy-go-lucky boy he's always been, except for an hour each day. That hour, though, seems even more extreme given the contrast to the way he used to be.

"Mommy, I miss Daddy," he explains post-tantrum.

It's an explanation, but not an excuse. He's heard big people - teachers, other parents - nod knowingly and whisper "his dad's deployed" often enough that he tries to use it to reason away everything, including the times when he's bent on putting the "brat" in "military brat."

Brush your teeth.

Mommy, I miss Daddy.

Turn off the Wii.

Mommy, I miss Daddy.

Take your vitamin.

Mommy, I miss Daddy.

We've talked about why Daddy's in Afghanistan, though 4-year-olds can't grasp that someone is taking care of them by being away. I've explained that the best thing we can do while he's gone is to be happy with each other because that's what Daddy wants.

Missing Daddy comes in waves, too. Boots struggled back in January but seemed to find an even keel for a while. Lately, though, he's been adrift again.

"Mommy, El is sad because his mommy and daddy are in the Army and he misses them," Boots said recently as he brought his elephant to me for a hug.

"I know, babes. El's mommy and daddy are away because they're working hard for him."

"He's still sad because his daddy never gets to see him do karate," Boots replied.

"What if we take the camera to his next class? We can send his dad a video so he'll be able to watch."

"Pictures, too?"

"Pictures, too!"

So tonight I'll tote the camera gear to the guys' karate class so Dad can see what his boys are learning.

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, we'll once again be able to make the world a little smaller. Hopefully it will make a little boy a bit happier, too.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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When the big people roar

Debra Legg — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 22:05:27 +0000

Boots' baseball season apparently has ended, not with a homerun trot or a pizza party, but curled up in a fetal position in the floorboard of a car.

I say "apparently," because with more than half the schedule left to play there's a chance he'll return. A chance, but not much hope.

***

In a way, Boots and baseball were doomed from the start. I knew when I saw the schedules, which had both guys playing at the same time for most of the season, that this was going to be a problem in our current one-parent household.

I'd have Boots, who's frequently described as a mamm'a boy, on one field while Big Guy, who's considerably more independent but still looks for me on the sidelines when he's playing any sport, occupied another.

We'd done the juggle before, when soccer games collided with karate class. I'd explain to the guy I was leaving behind exactly where I was going and that I'd be back. They were OK with it. That was a short-term deal, though, lasting only a week. The baseball shuffle would go on for nearly two months.

The one thing we had going for us: Boots' baseball team included three friends from his preschool class. I hoped their presence would make him feel more comfortable in his strange new world.

Through the first practice and most of the first game, it seemed to work. Boots loved his new gear - the helmet personalized with his name and a SpongeBob logo, his colorful jersey emblazoned with the cartoon mascot, his red and yellow bat that Big Guy coveted to the very depths of his soul. He enjoyed playing, too - particularly in the dirt in the infield.

The first game I ran from field to field, somehow miraculously not missing a guy at bat. Trouble started, though, as Boots' game ended.

"He's having issues," a parent reported tersely as I panted up the tiny incline from Big Guy's game. "He kept throwing water bottles and balls at teammates."

I glanced toward the players sitting around a picnic table, laughing and eating their snacks. If he'd instigated a bench-clearing brawl everyone seemed to have recovered quickly, I thought. Still, I talked with him about it.

The next practice featured the hugfest. The next game, Boots had the vapors because another kid kept taking his helmet.

Despite the minor hoo-has, he seemed OK. Until last Friday's practice, that is. That's when I made another of my King Solomon decisions that I've regretted at least daily since.

***

Big Guy wanted me to play catch with him that day, and since he's always begging and I too often say no, I agreed. We positioned ourselves at the edge of the infield grass on the field where Boots' team was practicing, so I could cheer him on as Big Guy and I tossed the ball.

I saw Boots, the last hitter of the evening, reach home plate. The players huddled up, shouted "Gooooooooooo, team!" and practice was over.

Big Guy begged for one last toss, and I gave in, craning my neck all the while to keep an eye on Boots. Big Guy overthrew, and I had to track down the ball far behind me.

In that split second, Boots decided I had left without him and took off down the hill. Across a busy street. Into a hectic parking lot.

I got the ball, stood up and looked around. I called his name. No response.

I went to the dugout, where his equipment bag remained but not his bat or helmet. "Big Guy, go look over there for your brother while I gather this up," I said.

Nothing. "I'm an only child now! I'm an only child now! Yip-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Big Guy cheered when he returned. I glared.

Other parents joined the search, looking in ditches and across fields. I climbed under a small bridge where the kids like to play to make sure he wasn't hiding so he could enjoy the tumult.

"Boots, if you're under there you better get out right now," terse parent growled.

"He's not. I checked myself," I said icily. Sometimes you just get frustrated with people treating you child like the "bad kid" when his behavior is pretty much the norm for his age. Terse parent would have hauled out the leg irons for the kid who had his hands around a classmate's throat at preschool today. The choker thought he was playing. The chokee didn't enjoy the game.

Just then, another parent waved from below the little hill. "We found him. He's in your car."

I dragged Big Guy, dismayed that his only-child status had vaporized so quickly again, down the hill, across the street and to our car. That's when we found Boots, curled up and crying on the floorboard.

***

From what I've been able to piece together, when the parents found Boots in the parking lot he did what he often does of late when he's embarrassed, in trouble or both. He ran around the car, laughing. It's highly annoying and not the expected behavior, but it's hardly beyond the pale. I've worked with adults who would twitter merrily when faced with a screw-up, and I've wanted to growl at them. I didn't, though.

Apparently the parent who found Boots did. "I told him to get his little butt in the car, sit there and not move," the parent reported.

"He yelled at me," Boots said later. "I'm not going back."

I really don't know if the parent yelled, though I'll bet at the least voices were raised. On one level, I understand that. Giggle tag is frustrating.

Boots, however, does not respond to growling. Stern is acceptable, but there's a thin line you can't cross with him. He once refused to go to a cousin's house for months after he was yelled at there.

Big Guy will see a growl and up the ante. With Boots, it sends him into a fetal position, just like the one in which I found him Friday.

"Sign me out of baseball," he sniffed.

The next morning when it was time to get dressed for their games, Boots put on jeans and a T-shirt. "I said sign me out of baseball."

***

Boots and I have talked about it since. I've praised him for doing the right thing in going to the car when he couldn't find me. I told him how worried everyone was when we couldn't find him.

"Sometimes when adults get scared they get loud. It doesn't mean they're mean people. It just means they're scared," I said.

He's not buying it. "I won't go back."

I've displayed slide shows of Boots in happier baseball times - was it just last week? - in hopes he would remember how much fun it was before the world went mad.

"I won't go back."

Game, apparently, over.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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A Friday date with a boy

Debra Legg — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 20:00:15 +0000

It started as a bribe one Friday when I needed to take Dad's weekly package to the post office but Boots was starving because snack had been something odious that day at school. It probably was cottage cheese.

"Tell you what," I said. "Stop whining and be a good listener at the post office and we'll go to Taco Bell after the post office."

"Bleck. I hate Taco Bell."

"Huh. I thought you liked it there. They have a fountain."

He instantly brightened. "Oh, yeah, the fountain. I love the fountain. Let's go!"

Granted, it's not much of a fountain - it's barely bigger than Boots, and you don't have to look too hard to glimpse pieces of plumbing. As far as Boots is concerned, though, it's as fine as any cafe along the Champs-Élysées. That's because it's his and mine alone. The first place in a world dominated by a big brother that's ever been "our" place.

I've always been a bit sad that Boots and I had never had a place. Big Guy and I had had plenty of them in the two years before That Baby Who Ruined His Life showed up. There was breakfast at McDonald's on Sunday. The library's baby program on Mondays The neighborhood coffee shop and duck pond on Saturday mornings.

I tried, when Big Guy started kindergarten last summer, to create something special just for Boots. He was preoccupied with when Big Guy would get off from school, though, and flat wasn't interested in mommy time.

Maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe special can't be manufactured. Maybe it has to just happen.

Every Friday now, as the small fountain gurgles nearby and the breeze flutters through branches overhead, Boots smiles, chats and spills his guts. He shares important details about his day, confiding things I never hear about the other four days of the week.

"Mommy, I made good choices at circle time today. I stopped talking because I just got tired of saying words. I got a sticker but my choices weren't good enough to get an eraser."

Or, "Mommy, the Earf doesn't really have a face. They just draw it with a face because they want us to think of how we can make the Earf happy."

Or, "Mommy, I can't reach everything because I have little hands. When I grow up, I'll have big hands and I'll be able to reach everything up to the sky."

And to think that these philosophical gems cost me only the price of a burrito and a quesadilla - "But don't get any sauce on mine. I hate sauce."

I smile despite his use again of the word "hate," because even though it took almost two years , Boots and I finally have carved out a tiny time and place that's just ours alone. Ours and the fountain's, that is.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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The case of the hug-happy kid

Debra Legg — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 20:19:43 +0000

As far as discipline problems go, it's a not-bad one to have. It's preferable to biting, hitting, kicking, pinching, etc.

It's still annoying, though, and it's getting Boots in trouble somewhere virtually every day: At school, at karate and at baseball practice.

Boots, it seems, has gone completely hug happy. It's annoying the life out of his friends.

It's bugging some more than others. That's the report I got a few weeks back after Boots repeatedly embraced a classmate after school at baseball practice. I didn't see the hugs - I was about 50 yards away watching Big Guy's practice for a few minutes - but I got the report later from the other kid's mom. The kid had told her later that Boots had made the child "uncomfortable."

That language made me uncomfortable, as visions of the suspended Denver kindergarteners danced in my head. I'll talk to him, I said.

And ever since I talked him, the problem's gotten worse.

The next night, he practically tackled a teammate at baseball. The kid's struggles to escape looked like a bug trying to flee a spider's web. The following evening, he repeatedly embraced a classmate at karate. "Get. Off. Me," the kid finally growled. I don't blame him. I've wanted to say that, too, sometimes.

I've tried to couch the warnings carefully, lest I give him the impression that hugging is wrong. Visions of a future girlfriend dumping him because he won't show affection danced in my head.

Apparently, though, he's doing some couching of his own on "keep your hands to yourself." I can practically see the wheels spinning in his head. "Hands? Yes, she said 'hands.' So that means I can still lock my arms around someone in a vice-like grip."

I've changed the reminder, now issued before school every day as well as at all sporting events, to "if someone doesn't want to be touched, don't touch them." I fear there's still wiggle room there, because it gives him one free shot.

I know I'm not the only person to deal with this. It's been discussed on parenting boards, and just this morning I heard another mom warn her similarly hug-happy son. "If you keep doing that, one of these days someone is going to pop you," she said.

Maybe he and Boots need to get together.

Sometimes, in fact, they do. Pictures from the last birthday party Boots went to show the two all hugged up together in several shots. At least they weren't bugging someone else.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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When the baby’s no longer “the” baby

Debra Legg — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 19:34:57 +0000

If anyone's station in life seemingly was secure, Boots' was.

He's the youngest grandchild on each side, thus ensuring his lifelong position as "The Baby."

Ay, but no one ever warned him that there would be other babies in his life. It's an omission that's causing problems of late.

Boots can handle small fry in small doses, and he's always quick to coo, "look at that cute little baby!" if we see one when we're out and about.

All bets are off, though, if one tries to invade his turf - particularly if it's a baby Big Guy bestows with the adoration he's always withheld from his brother.

Big Guy: Over the moon when The Baby visits.

Boots: Wants to launch The Baby to the moon.

To make matters worse, The Baby has an older brother so she's used to playing with boy toys. She has a special fondness for Thomas, too. "No, Baby, no!" Boots will shriek, confiscating trains as quickly as his little hands can grab them. "You'll tear it up." How she could tear up a die-cast engine is beyond me, but Boots isn't thinking. He's parroting what Big Guy's told him his entire life.

She's also close enough to the same size as Boots, who is small for his age, to inherit clothes he outgrew only recently. Nothing starts a fracas around here quicker than seeing someone else in your former wardrobe. "Oh, The Baby has a Lightning MaKeen shirt just like mine," Boots smiled. And then he saw the tell-tale paint stains on the cuffs. "No!!!! That one is mine. Mommy, why does she have my shirt?"

The final insult, though, is that The Baby often calls me "mommy." It's perfectly understandable to everyone but Boots - "mommy" is, after all, what she hears two other people call me. For Boots, it's the final blow. She's taken his brother and his clothes, but she is not about to take his mother.

"Mommy, just make The Baby go home. I don't like her here."

There has been slight progress of late, as Boots made sure The Baby knew that the coveted Lightning MaKeen shirt makes noise when you press it. "See?" he demonstrated. He actually smiled at her giggles, though it didn't last long.

"Mommy, I don't understand why she has my shirt. I could still wear it, you know."

It was my turn to giggle, because I've heard those exact words from Big Guy. It appears you don't actually have to be siblings to experience sibling rivalry.

Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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Yes, I have a youngest child

Debra Legg — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 19:27:38 +0000

It was one of Boots' best performances ever.

Miffed that Big Guy didn't want to play with him, Boots stomped over to a lonely corner of the playground, plopped down and hung his head. Seconds later, he checked to see if I was watching. I was, but out of the corner of an eye and he couldn't see me. So he repeated his dejected huff.

This time, he was able to confirm that he had an audience so he sank lower into his misery. When forlorn whimpers didn't convince me to rush to his side, he let his body slowly sink while his voice steadily climbed toward distraught.

It didn't work.

Eventually, Boots figured that out and scampered up to play with his friends.

I can't blame him for trying, because similar tricks worked for his first two years. He'd grab a toy Big Guy was playing with and a friend of relative would rush to admonish Big Guy. "He's a baby! Just let him have it." As a result, Boots learned that all he needed to do to get his way was to cry and point at his brother.

As an oldest sibling, I'm acutely aware of how that game works and was determined not to fall for it. Manipulation is hard for a parent to resist, though, without feeling like a child abuser.

Aw, the poor baby has a tummy ache. How can you make him go to that awful school? Never mind that he'll be playing happily 10 seconds after you're out the door, stomach pain forgotten.

Then there's manipulation by delay, which happens once they've figured out that if they stall long enough you'll do their bidding because there's no time to resist any longer.

"Mommy, I can't find my shoes."

"There's in the living room, where you left them. Where are we supposed to leave our shoes?"

"I want you to get them."

"Look around. You'll see them."

"No, you!"

"Aw, for Pete's sake," I'll growl, frustrated because at this point we should already be out the door.

He gets his way, in a way, because I do wind up finding his shoes. That's why, I suppose, he thinks crude dramas like the one at the park will work. If he can play helpless once and get what he wants, then it should work the next time, shouldn't it?

No it shouldn't, any more than "I love you, Mommy. Can I have some candy?" works.

I just have to figure out a way resign as shoe fetcher while also making sure he doesn't leave the house barefoot. Maybe once the red ants start reappearing this summer, he'll figure it out all on his own.

Copyright Debra Legg 2010. All right reserved.

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