Let’s Discuss This Rationally

“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” she says plaintively, her big blue eyes staring up at me with a mixture of pain, sadness and longing.

“It’s Friday,” I say. “It’s movie day at Diana’s. Dylan and Austin haven’t seen you in a while and they are looking forward to playing with you.”

“I don’t want to go,” she says, looking quietly at the TV, hoping that Jo Jo would break from the script and support her.

“Why don’t you want to go honey,” I ask. But I already know the reasons.

“I want to stay home with my mommy and daddy.”

“But Mommy and Daddy will be at work, honey. They won’t be able to play.”

“I can go to work with you,” she responds, her hope rising, as if this was the most brilliant idea she’s ever had. Of course, this would work! Everybody gets what they want!

“Well honey, I’m afraid it would be boring. And daddy wouldn’t be able to play.”

“But,” she says, “I will miss you.” Her eyes grow wider, more pleading. We sink back into the episode of Jo Jo’s Circus. Poor Goliath learns he’s too little to do Tiger Tricks. Bummer.

“I will miss you too, sweetie.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes. I have an idea.

“I don’t want to go to work,” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“But I will be sad,” I say.

“You be okay Daddy. You will be safe at your work.”

“Really? I will”

“Sure,” she says, betraying her vast vocabulary. “You will be safe.”

“Really,” I ask one more time.

“I promise,” she says, looking at me with real concern in her eyes.

She hops down off my lap and walks over to Mommy. Without any real warning she blurts out to her, “I love my daddy.” I feel good. Those words meant that my plan was working and she doesn’t hate me.

So she climbs back up on my lap and we go through our morning ritual of putting her shoes and socks on. Her left foot, you see, is afraid of wearing socks, so it hides. Each morning we have to coax it out with promises that the sock will be warm and soft. Once the foot is happy with the sock, we have to convince it that the shoe is really a foot car that Little Foot can drive around. She provides the foot’s voice, with adequate smallness and fear mixed in the voice.

Today, I can’t help but think that this little game has a deep subtext.

“Will I really be safe at work,” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “When you get home I will share my dinner.” I’m not sure where this came from, but to her it’s a huge gesture. To her, this will make me more secure and easy with my day.

Mom is packing up the car, so we start to head for the door to get her coat on. I have another idea.

“Is that Goodnight Bear,” I ask. “I think she’s crying.”

Gertrude runs over to the bear, who was laying face down on the floor as if she were discarded in mid-play scenario. Her position has that sadness of a forgotten toy. Gertrude picks her up and brings her back to me.

“What’s wrong little bear,” she asks.

“I’m scared,” I say for the bear.

“It’s okay,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear.

“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” Goodnight Bear tells her.

“Diana has movies,” Gertrude tells her. “You can watch a movie.”

“I’m still scared,” Goodnight Bear says.

“We will have fruit snacks,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear. She said “we”. That’s good.

“Will you come with me and take care of me,” pleads Goodnight Bear.

“Sure,” Gertrude says. She picks up Goodnight Bear and gives her a big hug.

“I love you,” Goodnight Bear says.

“I love you too,” Gertrude says.

Confident in my parenting, we head off to get her jacket on. I feel as though she’s rationalized the whole thing in her head. She understands, I keep telling myself. She gets it.

As we’re walking down the hall we encounter Mommy who has finished getting the car loaded. She’s heard everything and is ready to do her part. “It’s time to go to Diana’s,” she says cheerily.

Gertrude stops in the hallway. She shoots me a look of betrayal and sadness. “But,” she starts to say as Goodnight Bear is flung to the side, her pain and suffering forgotten like Elia Kazan naming names to the House Un-American Activities Committee, “I don’t want to go to Diana’s.”

Throughout this whole thing, she never cried. She only looked at me with sadness. She appealed to me. She beseeched me. But it was to no avail. Daddy kept her home from Diana’s last week. And the whole point of going to Diana’s was to get her playing with other kids and used to being around people who aren’t family.

Mommy had to take her and do the hard part. She had to separate with her. Gertrude told Mommy she would miss her, with glassy eyes and watched her out the window as Mommy pulled away.

I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll bet she’s enjoying herself, playing with the kids. Diana is great with her and all the kids love her.

Still, when she gets home . . . I think I’ll share my dinner with her.

Discuss