The house had a glass door, so Mr. Smith paused. With a glass door, he could view his reflection before the meeting. Mr. Smith liked looking at himself. He was pleased with the image he saw, the suit that he wore and his position. He was a Negotiator for the Toddler Rights’ Commission, a very successful one, and he was visiting another home to discuss another client; a two-year-old, named Mikey.
Almost immediately after he rang the bell, the Mother met him at the door. She was a short, stocky woman, who looked far younger than her forty years. Yet, she wasn’t very fashionable. Her face was freckled, with little or no make-up and her dark blonde hair was simple, just pulled back from her face. She smiled and her blue eyes were cheerful.
“Come in, Mr. Smith, ” she said briskly, and almost in a whisper. “Could we talk in the kitchen? Mikey just fell asleep on the couch.”
Mr. Smith entered the house and glanced at his client, a copper-haired boy, curled inside a faded flannel blanket on a lumpy blue sofa, the focal point of this simple room. Mr. Smith noticed that this room didn’t have the sleek, designer feel to it that he was more accustomed to. This one held mismatched, shabby furniture. The television was out of date. The only art was family photos on the mantle. But the room was tidy. He had to admit that.
The child stirred, let out a little cry and simultaneously reached for a toy fireman’s hat with one hand and stuck the thumb of his other hand right in his mouth.
“Oh, what a life he leads,” Mr. Smith viewed all of his clients with a little bit of contempt. Mikey was no different from the other toddlers who whined, cried and begged to get their own way.
Mr. Smith had worked with dozens of them since he began this job last May. It was at that point, that his life, one much like the life of a two-year-old, came abruptly to an end, since his college life was over.
Smith had been reluctant to take this, his only offer. Work as a Negotiator would require him to curb his late night antics and succumb to the nine-to-five routine.
But that was five months ago, before he knew how good he would be at negotiating the demands of little children. It was a perfect fit. Just like that expensive suit he wore to every meeting, every negotiation. And everywhere he went, he won. He had never lost a Toddler Rights Case and he was a rookie. This was an impressive feat for anyone in The Commission.
The Mother led him into the kitchen and she motioned for him to sit at the table. Like the living room, the kitchen was ordinary. But the counter tops were clear, the floor was swept and the empty steel sink sparkled.
Mr. Smith sat down at the kitchen table across from The Mother.
“Um, do you have a pen?” he asked. Pens were too much trouble to keep up with.
She offered him two, one black and one blue.
He took both.
“Let’s begin with bath time,” he opened. He never let the parent speak first. He learned early on that his first request should put the parent on the defensive. Besides the sooner they got started, the sooner he could get out of here. This was his last stop for the afternoon.
She picked up her copy of the contract from the table.
He began before she found the place. “First, your son would like at least thirty minutes of play time before you begin the actual washing.”
“That can be arranged,” she agreed, writing on her contract, “as long as there is a discretionary clause, which allows for a shorter time if needed.”
This was a rare request. She was well informed of her rights.
“Fine,” he agreed, a bit discouraged by this rocky start. “But no scrubbing of the ears.”
“I must scrub his ears. What if I use a softer washcloth?”
He disapproved of her haggling, but relented. “As long as it’s blue,” he said.
“Agreed,” she replied. Not exactly a victory for his side.
He continued, “My client wishes for you to sing every lyric from ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’ on demand.”
She fidgeted, “Not ‘on demand’, that’s intolerable cruelty. I’ll do it, under protest, three times a day at the most.”
“Agreed.” Mr. Smith drummed his fingers on the table, happy that he had won that point. “Um, do you have any spring water?”
“We have filtered. Will that do?”
He nodded.
She rose, took a glass from the cupboard, and walked to the refrigerator for a pitcher.
As she poured, she stopped and looked at Mr. Smith.
“I want my son to stop drinking from the toilet,” she said, as she sat the glass on the table.
Mr. Smith grimaced. The cool water no longer seemed so refreshing. He twirled the pen in his fingers, but did not touch the glass.
Parents usually didn’t make requests of their own, and this perplexed him. Quickly, he remembered a point that Mikey had wanted, one that would have come later. But this was a game of strategy. Mr. Smith had learned to play it well.
“He’s probably just thirsty. He’ll stop if he has more juice to drink; say, six cups a day?”
“Six!” She laughed. “He can’t count that high, Mr. Smith! Please, let’s get back to drinking out of the toilet.”
The young man sighed, repulsed not only by her command of the conversation, but that he couldn’t get the mental image of Mikey’s drinking habits out of his mind while his thirst begged him to pick up the glass of water.
“Well, could it be that he’s just curious?” Mr. Smith asked the mother. Distraction, Mr. Smith, thought to himself. Distraction is the answer to this problem.
He overcame his aversion, picked up the glass and took a long drink.
“Don’t you think he sees, you know, the rest of the family in the bathroom all day and . . . Poor thing, he’s still in diapers . .”
He drank again, slowly, to spite her.
She remained unshaken. “I thought you might bring up potty training,” she said as she handed him a notarized document. “ So, I’m requesting an extension for two reasons. First, I am nursing his baby sister and that takes up a great deal of my time. Secondly, I am homeschooling his three older siblings, which take up even more.”
Mr. Smith had never seen a document of this type before. He was stunned.
She continued. “Contrary to the mug I got for Christmas, Mr. Smith, I am not Super-Mom. If he is still in diapers when he is three, it will not kill him. He will stay out of the toilet and that is that!”
Mr. Smith winced. His favorite tactics of guilt had failed him. He gently rattled the ice in his water glass, cueing her for a refill.
But she appeared not to notice. Was she was rude or just oblivious?
“Never mind,” he thought to himself. Stay focused. No more yielding.
He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “My client claims that you do not come when he calls you at night. He demands your prompt attention every time he yells, ‘Mommy!’”
He studied her eyes, expecting a tear of shame. Instead, she rolled her eyes in amusement.
Exasperated, he elaborated. “According to his deposition, two nights ago he stood in his crib and yelled for you for 23 minutes and you did not come.”
She spoke firmly. “Did your client reveal to you that I had been in there three times already? I fixed his blanket, kissed him twice, gave him two hugs, prayed with him and brought him a drink of water? He needed nothing except sleep!”
“The point is not that he needed anything.” His next accusation was a classic, and he practically hurled it at her, “The point is that you didn’t come. What were you doing that was more important?” This was a deft move, combining selfishness with small accusations of guilt.
She leaned back in her chair and chuckled, “I will not apologize for doing something so basic as taking a shower!”
He was dumbfounded. No guilt? No tears? She was bulldog in a pink polo and ponytail.
“Now for my next item,” she said, turning a page of the contract. “I want to discuss his other bad habit: eating things off the sidewalk.”
He scratched his head, staggered at her leading of the conversation. But, he confidently rattled off his textbook answer, “My client insists these items are: A) very attractive; B) surprisingly tasty, and C) unlikely to kill him.” He picked the glass up again, hoping for a little melted ice, sure in his reasoning.
“And I insist that if his lips touch worms, they will never touch mine.”
“I can cite many cases that calls that ‘conditional love’,” he said smugly. “You don’t want to love him ‘conditionally,’ do you?”
She never flinched, but with a smile, gently retorted, “Okay I will kiss him, under the ‘condition’ that he washes his mouth with Listerine first.”
Because he would rather eat worms himself than explain mouthwash to a toddler, he had no choice than to concede.
He was relieved that the next item was about food. In his experience, children always got their way with food.
“My client wants only bread and butter for meals, three times a day. And absolutely no vegetables.”
“Listen,” she said, sitting up straight. “Except for the occasional snack, he is going to eat what we eat, when we eat it, in his high chair, at the table. He will not spit it up, throw it on the floor or smear it in his hair. I will periodically give him bread and butter, but no more than two times a day. And he certainly will eat his vegetables, with a please, a thank you and a happy heart.”
She had obliterated every single item on Mr. Smith’s list. He was aghast. He was suddenly sweaty inside that wool suit and questioned, for just a moment, how he could hide the results of this interview from the Commissioner.
She was not finished. “Now, let’s move on. I also want my son to restrict the use of the word ‘mine’ to two times per day.”
Mr. Smith loosened his tie, wiped the perspiration off his brow, and spoke up, “According to his testimony, everything is his.” This was a fact. The boy had spoken the word ‘mine’ fifty-two times in the exploratory conference two weeks ago.
“He doesn’t have receipts to prove it. I do. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.” She handed him another file, thick with paperwork.
Suddenly, the front door creaked opened and crashed shut.
“Help! Mommy!” A frantic cry came from the living room. “Amy’s dress is caught in the bike chain!”
With a quick, “Excuse me,” The Mother jumped from her chair, ran to the living room and out the front door.
Mr. Smith was relieved at the interruption. He took a deep breath and examined his water glass. Why hadn’t the ice melted? Not even smallest drop of water had come from the cubes. And yet, he was still very thirsty.
Moving quickly, he opened the refrigerator door and reached for the pitcher. A half-eaten chocolate layer cake was inside. Mr. Smith pinched a chunk from the top and stuffed it into his mouth.
He heard The Mother reassuring the child while the front door opened, “If everything’s all right now, I’ll go back to my meeting.” He shut the refrigerator door quickly and licked his fingers clean, careful not to wipe them on his pants.
She re-entered the kitchen.
“Sorry about that,” she said, sliding into her place at the table.
She then handed Mr. Smith another file of documents. “I want you to have this.”
He thumbed through the folder, his fingers still sticky from frosting. He was trying to hide his surprise.
“As you will see, Mr. Smith, the top form is my mission statement.”
“A mission statement?” He repeated her and instantly regretted that he showed such weakness.
“It reads that my husband and I have one and only goal: to rear this child in such a way that he is socially, spiritually, emotionally and cognitively healthy.”
She looked him right in the eye. Was she smug or just steadfast?
She continued. “Every request that I’ve made today is based on that goal. Additionally, I have an affidavit stating that Mikey is not the center of the universe that he claims to be.”
Mr. Smith was mortified. If any other parent gets a whiff of this document, he would be out of a job.
“And lastly, a joint statement issued by his father and me, affirming that we love him so much, that we can’t let him have his own way all the time. Please add this to the file.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Mr. Smith croaked as he grasped the folder. There was nothing more to say and no more points to negotiate. He numbly gathered his papers, (and the two pens), put them all in his briefcase, and stood up to leave.
Mr. Smith and the Toddler Rights Commission had been soundly defeated by this formidable woman. The bad news was that this kid would be heartbroken. The good news was that he’d get over it with a lollipop.
Mr. Smith piped up one last time, “You realize he won’t be very happy with our outcome today.” Mikey wouldn’t be the only one.
She smiled. It was the same confident smile that haunted him for the entire meeting. “I’m not all that interested in his happiness today. I’m interested in his happiness for a lifetime.”
“Mommy?”
Mikey’s groggy voice came from the living room. He was half whining, half crying, disoriented from the nap.
The Mother went to her son and scooped him up from the couch. He clung to her neck and she tenderly whispered in his ear. The mother’s full attention was the child, as if the Negotiator had completely disappeared. Mr. Smith was genuinely moved by their affection for each other, but the feeling frightened him a bit.
He shook it off and walked hurriedly toward the door, preoccupied by his failure. She followed him. He limply shook The Mother’s hand, mumbled good-bye, and exited the house.
He walked away. He wasn’t just pained in his defeat, he was nearly debilitated. Usually, by this time in the afternoon he was ready to track down his buddies and make plans for the evening. But his confidence was crushed under her deft victory. He was far too numb to celebrate.
She had refused everything except a blue washcloth and some dumb train songs. She had presented him with dozens of papers he would have to file, explain or investigate. Her stubbornness had stained the unbroken success record he had at the Commission. Perhaps if she had squirmed just a little, if she had fretted or worried or fearfully picked a cuticle or bit her lip, he might have felt better about the results.
No, he wasn’t going out tonight.
He’d much rather go home and sulk.
