Walk of Shame

Henry is a boy of peculiar habits, most of which can be somewhat trying, to say the least.

Take, for instance, his morning routine. It differs a bit from Alison's. From the time that Alison was old enough to get out of bed herself, she would come into our room and wake me up in the sweetest way imaginable, with a simple kiss on the tip of my nose. No matter how tired I was, there was no way I could ever resist such a wake-up call. Sometimes she'd want me to get up and start breakfast, but usually she'd be happy to climb into bed with us for another hour or so.

It's not quite the same with Henry. When he wakes up each morning, he bursts into our room and announces his presence with his normal voice level. Keep in mind that even in the afternoon, when everyone is watching TV or playing calmly, Henry's voice is usually much, much too loud. Teachers would describe it as an "outside voice." At this point, Henry hasn't yet acquired an "inside voice."

So imagine that you're sleeping soundly in your bed at, say, 5:45 AM. Suddenly the door is thrown open and there's a pig squealing at the top of his lungs at the foot of your bed. Nine times out of ten, it starts out like this: "ME EAT!!!"

No need for good morning; let's just cut to the chase. When his first salvo doesn't get the desired response, he typically elaborates: "ME EAT!!! ME EAT WAFFLES!!! ME PUSH THE BUTTON!!!" (Translation: He would love it if I could get up and fix him some waffles. After I put the waffles into the toaster oven, he would like to push the button to turn the oven on, if that's okay.)

Those are his first words of the day, screamed at maximum volume, when the entire house is asleep. My usual response is to scramble out of bed as fast as I can and get the fucking waffles into the fucking toaster oven as fast as fucking possible, hoping against hope that Leslie and Alison and Kate won't be awoken by Henry's outburst. I am never successful in this, and at least two of the three are soon awake.

Probably Henry's most frustrating characteristic, however, is his recently developing ability to show no need for parental supervision. Let me explain. There are times when a power struggle develops between parent and child when the parent wants the child to come, and the child refuses. All of us have been on one end or the other of this dynamic, so we're all familiar with how it usually plays out.

Parent: Okay, time to go.
Child: No.
Parent: Okay, I'm going. See you later.
Parent begins walking away, with no intention of actually leaving.
Child thinks parent is actually leaving, child caves in and comes.

This is such a universal experience that I'm confident it was first developed in Neandrethal times, refined by the Cro-Magnons, and widely exploited by the Homo Sapiens.

The problem in our household is that when we play this game, Henry never loses. Chess players at the highest level often speak of how it feels to lose to a superior player. Overwhelmed by the opponent's tactical prowess, the vanquished player describes the intellectual conquest in terms that would suggest a physical beating. They use words like strength, power, and dominance, and so it is with Henry.

I first felt Henry's strength during our a recent trip to Detroit. We were changing planes in Chicago, and as we were walking from one gate to the next, Henry decided that he had walked enough for the day. No problem, I thought. This boy's only two years old, so I can outthink him. Right.

When he refused to continue walking, I didn't even break stride. "Okay, Henry. Goodbye." I just knew he'd come sprinting after me. He didn't.

Please picture the scene. We're in O'Hare Airport, the busiest airport in the United States, and I'm walking casually away from two-year old son. Henry stood confidently in the middle of the busy concourse, staring after me as walked twenty, thirty, even fifty feet away from him.

Passersby were interested at first, and then concerned. Even though most knew what was going on, I don't think they had ever seen the game play out to such an extreme. I can only imagine what they thought. For them, it was probably like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. They were in the presence of greatness...

And so I had no choice but to take the walk of shame. I stopped, turned back around, and walked back towards my smiling son who seemed to enjoy the laughter of his fellow travellers. I was no match for him.

Since then he has beaten me in multiple venues, and he doesn't seem to mind when I up the ante. There was a time at a park when I actually took Alison to the car, buckled her in, closed the doors, and started to drive away. Henry didn't flinch. When I shifted the car into reverse and backed up into the parking lot, I might as well have been waving a white flag.

Just last weekend we were trying to take the kids to the library when Henry decided that he didn't want to go. We left him sitting on the bench by our front door and drove to the corner. We waited for a few minutes before driving back, only to find him sitting where I had left him, content that he had won again.

All of which brings us to this afternoon. Soon after I got home from work I walked down the street to pick up Alison and Henry from daycare. They were both excited when I told them that Leslie's parents were waiting for them, and started running home. Alison got to the corner in about thirty seconds, then dutifully waited for me to catch up and walk her across the street. Such a good girl...

Henry, meanwhile, seemed to have had a change of heart. About two houses from the corner he decided that he didn't really want to come home. Alright, I said. I'll see you later.

And so I left my son -- UNATTENDED ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET -- and I walked Alison across the street. He was always within eyesight, never more than twenty yards away, but this was too much, even for Henry, so he came running to the corner.

I met him there and thanked him for coming, satisfied that I had won this latest confrontation. Not so fast, Daddy. Henry suddenly sat down and refused to cross the street.

"Don't you want to go home and see Mama?"
"No."
"Don't you want to go home and see Baby Kate?"
"No."
"Don't you want to go home and see Grandma and Grandpa?"
"No."

And then Henry noticed the newspaper that had been sitting in the middle of our driveway since early this morning. Henry likes newspapers.

"NEWSPAPER!!!"
"Do you want to pick up the newspaper and bring it inside?" I can be very clever.
"YES!!!"

And just like that, we were crossing the street, picking up the paper, and (finally) walking in the front door. Had I finally won? I'm certainly not misguided enough to think so; I'm just happy that he's not still sitting on the corner.

Comments

[Brent]

You might find it interesting to note that we have no such difficulties in our house. Everyone uses "inside voices" at all times and all parties involved exercise immediate obedience when asked to depart, clean up, exit the pool, or when faced with any such parental request.

[Joleen]

My responses are to laugh + to say "aww" simultaneously. :D

[Sweetie Pie]

Years from now, we'll look back at this and laugh. (Ha! You knew I'd say that, huh?)

For now, though, we'll just *sigh*.

[Michelle]

The fact that Henry stands his ground when you pretend to leave says a lot about you as a parent. He trusts that you would never, ever leave him. Congratulations on being a loving father who makes your children feel safe and confident.

[justJENN]

Henry's my fave.
That boy's got spunk!

[shokufeh]

One of our nieces, also a second child, is of the same nature: unphased by being left alone. Her mother tested her once, telling her goodbye, walking out the door with the older one (who was sobbing, "No, we can't leave her behind!"), just to see what would happen. When her mother looked in the window, she was still sitting there playing - it didn't matter to her that she was two years old and home alone.

It sounds like maybe a newspaper rolled up in your back pocket at all times wouldn't be a bad idea.