Just Say "NO!"

My daughter doesn’t seem to like me very much. She hasn’t actually come out and said this, but I have my suspicions. For example, it used to be when I picked her up from the babysitter, she would look up and smile, eager to accept my hug and anxious to return home. This heartwarming scene has now, at fifteen-months, devolved into a much colder reception. These days, upon my arrival, she immediately begins to say, “No, no, no!” while toddling away in her highest gear.

The word “No,” in fact, has become her standard rebuttal to nearly any question I might have.

“Do you want some milk?”

“No.”

“Do you want to read a book?”

“No.”

“Can I play blocks with you?”

“NO!”

Even her animals have become involved.

“Hey, what does a kitty cat say?”

“NO!”

“Then what does a puppy dog say?”

“NO!”

It’s terrible, these creatures. Cows that once made an adorable little “mooo!” and roosters that went “dooo!” have all joined up in a menagerie of mutes. It’s as if Napoleon, that foul pig from Animal Farm, has hijacked the barnyard in an effort to make all these beasts equally disagreeable.

According to the baby experts who e-mail my wife every week, however, my daughter is merely exerting her independence. Apparently she’s uncovered one of the great existential epitomes of her life: namely, she is not of us. She is her own person, not a hapless extension of her mother or me or anyone else in the room. One would think such a discovery would be elating. Instead, she’s chosen to demonstrate her uniqueness by disagreeing with nearly everything we ever say.

“Want to take a bath?”

“NOO!”

“Want to play outside?”

“NO!”

“Want to play inside?”

“NOOO!”

What she doesn’t know, though, is that we’ve been conditioned to such abuse due to our careers as educators. Working in a junior high all these years has at least somewhat prepared us for many daily parenting dilemmas, and this is certainly one of them. Our poor daughter, I’m afraid, doesn’t stand much of a chance.

One crucial parenting axiom I’ve picked up is that under most circumstances, it’s not personal. For example, when a student bemoans that “this is the most boring class in the world,” I know what they’re really saying is “I’d rather be playing Halo.” I know my class may be dull on occasion, but it is certainly not the most boring class in the world. I already took that class in college.

Despite my conditioning, however, I must admit that my gut reaction when I see my progeny putter away from me is heartache. When she’d rather have someone else hold her, like mommy or grandma or the lady at the grocery store, it can be a bit depressing. I have to keep reminding myself, It’s not about you, it’s about what you represent. When I pick her up from the sitter, she’s having a wonderful time playing outside with her friends. I represent the end of that fun. Of course she’d rather have a grandparent hold her than me. With a grandparent there’s an incredibly good chance she will be fed candy within minutes.

Knowing all this, though, knowing that it’s not personal and that deep down, she probably really does like me quite a bit doesn’t mean I’ve stopped seeking the external tokens of her affection. I’ve simply become sneaky. The morning, it turns out, is a good time to catch her in a more agreeable mood.

Recently she woke a bit earlier than usual, and instead of waking mommy and beginning the day, I decided I’d spend a little time with her by myself. I sat with her on our gliding chair, her sleepy head nestled atop my shoulder, and we rocked awhile in the morning quiet. Realizing my chance, I asked her a question for which “No,” would not suffice.

“Sweet girl, will you always be my baby?”

She rested there and said nothing, and I suppose that must do for now.