When Poppy was old enough to run away from me, I met this mom at the park near our home. She was the type who had strong opinions about most things in this life, including child rearing. Since Poppy was my first child-a daughter no less-I felt pretty clueless, so I listened as the super mom rattled off her advice on topics ranging from cloth diapers (pain in the ass) and car seats (rarely installed properly) to sharing.
"Sharing is overrated," she said, crossing her arms over her tidy chest.
I gasped. "It is?" Everything I had read said that sharing helps kids get socialized so they won't end up in jail or on drugs like former child TV stars.
"Think about it. I don't share my things. Not my car, my house…" As she rattled off the contents of her Ford, condo and purse, I thought of all the items Lala and I happily allowed others to use. I left the park and wrote that mom off as a tight-arsed control freak who needed a drink (among other things), but now, nine years later, I'm not so sure.
Poppy is five years older than London, and we ask (read: demand) her to spend time playing with him. Even though the developmental gap is widening, as Poppy wants to curl up with a novel while London wants to curl up under the sink, it's important that they have a close relationship. That, and having Poppy entertain the boy is a lot cheaper than a babysitter or clown. Anyway, I had my nose in
The Joy of Cooking
one afternoon, wondering if four cups of sugar were really necessary to make marinara sauce, when London came in wailing.
"Poppy is so mean," he said, slamming his fists to his sides. "She won't share."
"What happened?" I asked.
"I wanted to be the yellow horse because it's my special one, and she got all the horses last day when we were superheroes. You know, when I was Doc Oc's bad brother?" He cocked his head, trying to judge if I was, indeed, a good judge.
I called for the translator.
Poppy sauntered in, hands on hips. The more emotional her brother gets lately, the cooler Poppy becomes. Specialists may say that's because she's entering Piaget's Formal Operations stage and is now able to think hypothetically and reason deductively. But I know she's doing it just to piss her little brother off.
"Well," Poppy said, "I told him that he used the yellow horse for 12 minutes after I fairly traded him Spiderman AND Batman PLUS one Bratz as a signing bonus. According to my calculations, I get to use the yellow horse for another nine minutes. See? It's only fair, Dad."
I should also add that Poppy is at an age where fairness and justice are paramount. Even though I repeatedly try to explain that we live in America, she doesn't listen.
"London," I pleaded, "can Poppy use the horse for a little longer? Sounds like you had it for a while." I put my hand on his shoulder.
"But it's my favorite!" he screamed. "You're mean too!" Then he ran out of the room to hide from us partisan Evildoers.
I sighed. "Poppy, could you give up the horse? You're 10 years old. What difference does it make to you if you get the horse or the troll?"
She shook her head sadly at my unethical offering. "That wouldn't be fair to me, Dad. I have rights, too. Besides, London needs to learn how to share, doesn't he?" Her face took on the smug, righteous look of that woman I met in the park years ago, even though she was arguing the opposite.
What's a father to do but invoke Knute Rockne's lessons of locker room psychology? "Kids," I called, wiping my hands on a towel. "Come make dinner. I'm going outside to play."
Robert Wilder's recently published first book is
Daddy Needs A Drink
,
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