Adventures in Parenting – December 2010
by Patricia Darak
We are on a hunt; our daughter’s doll is missing, and she is terribly upset.
“Where did you leave her?”
“I don’t know, Momma! Can’t you look?”
“But, I’ve looked everywhere. Hmm . . . did you leave her in the car?”
“I think so. Go look, Momma. I want my doll.”
“Why don’t we go check together?”
“I don’t want to, Momma. You go. I want my doll.”
“But, if we both go together, maybe you’ll remember where she is.”
“No, Momma. I’m tired; you go. I want my doll.”
And so begins another round of Find-The-Toy: Doll Edition. The only thing that our daughter remembers is that she had her doll earlier, and now it’s gone. She’s upset, but refuses to help in any recovery effort. I think that if she were able to snap her fingers to make her doll appear, she would do so; I know that I would.
“Did you ask your sister if she’s seen her?”
“She said no, Momma. Can you find her, please?”
“Did you ask your brother if he’s seen her?”
“He doesn’t know, Momma. Can you find her, please? I really want my doll.”
“Did you ask Daddy? Maybe he knows where she is.”
“No, Momma! I want you to find her!”
“Okay, honey. Let’s start looking, room by room.”
“Momma, I said I’m so tired. You go find her, okay?”
“Alright. I’ll be back.”
“Thanks, Momma.”
Thirty minutes later, I had returned from my recovery mission, empty-handed. As I slowly approached our daughter, I noticed that, while she’s supposedly too tired to look for her doll, she’s not too tired to wrestle with her father.
“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t find your doll; I looked everywhere. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Momma. I found her.”
“You did? That’s good. Where was she?”
“I was sitting on her.”
“Oh. Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. I lost her again.”
“Oh.”
“Can you find her, Momma? Please?”
After I pause to take a few breaths, I look into her wide eyes and I smile.
“Of course, honey. Where did you leave her?”
“I don’t know, Momma. Can you find her, please?”
Here we go again.
“Did you ask your sister if she’s seen your doll?”
“No, Momma. She didn’t see her because she’s playing in her room.”
“But, did you ask her?”
“No.”
“How about your brother?”
“No, Momma. He’s playing in the backyard.”
“Has he seen your doll? Maybe you left it outside.”
“I don’t think so, Momma.”
“Did you take her outside? Were you playing outside?”
“I don’t know, Momma. I’m only three. I have a small brain.”
“No, you don’t. You have a big brain and you’re very smart. Now . . . were you playing outside?”
“I’m so smart. Right, Momma?”
“Yes, honey, you’re so smart.”
“Do you love me, Momma?”
“Yes, of course I do. I love you with all of my heart.”
“Then . . . can you find my doll, please?”
Ah, yes. Our daughter is quite the expert on evasion and circular logic. Although not yet four, she is miles ahead of me in thinking. Not only does she think outside of the box, she thinks outside-the-box-and-into-the-next-state.
Her older brother and older sister are also masters in thought/argument conquest. I think they taught their little sister the ropes.
“No, honey. You need to find your own doll. Then, when you’ve finished playing with her; you should put her away in your bedroom.”
She stared up at me with her wide eyes, not quite understanding that her Momma has refused her request. Not only that, but Momma wanted her to do something for herself. Confusion steals over her angelic little face.
“But, Momma! I can’t find my doll!”
“Have you even looked for her?”
“No, Momma. I want you to look for her. Please?”
“I have looked for her. She’s your doll. You need to take care of her.”
Her formerly innocent face becomes clouded with anger and injustice.
“I’m mad at you Momma! You’re mean!”
“I’m sorry that you think that I’m mean. I just want you to take care of your toys. That’s what a big girl does.”
“I’m not a big girl. I’m still a baby.”
At this, she sits down and starts to suck her thumb.
“No, honey. You can walk, you can talk, you’re potty-trained, and you go to school. That means that you’re growing into a big girl. Now, let’s look for your doll together, okay?”
She thinks about it for a few minutes, then stands up and holds my hand.
“Okay, Momma. But . . . I’m still your baby in your heart, right?”
I gazed down into her now-smiling face, then knelt down and hugged her.
“Of course you are, darling. You’ll always be my baby in my heart.”
“Momma?”
“Yes, sweetheart? What is it?”
“You’re squeezing me. Let go.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Momma. Can we find my doll now?”
“Where should we start looking?”
“Let’s look on my couch. She’s probably there.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because that’s where I left her.”
“Oh, okay. That’s a good idea. Let’s start looking there.”
And, just like that, the universe is once again in order, and trouble has been averted. For now, anyway.
“Momma?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I can’t find my other shoe. It’s gone.”
“Did you look in your closet on your shoe shelf?”
“No.”
Uh, oh. Here we go again.
“Can you look for it, Momma? Please?”
