One Out of Five

IT IS BEDTIME. You are wiped. Your kids are wiped. And your goals are at odds. You want them to go to sleep. They want to stay up. It’s a perfect conflict, and one that in our experience does not resolve easily. In fact, we would argue that the great collaboration of parents as rule makers and children as rule followers is never more greatly tested than at bedtime. The essential conflict is simple: Most parents feel the need to lay down the law and make the law feel impenetrable. “This is our routine. We are sticking to it.” And the children are normally smart enough to know that their only chance of “winning” (staying up past bedtime) is to disrupt that routine in any way possible. Basically a fucking nightmare.

Recently one of us had an experience with one of our daughters (we will leave out names to protect the innocent) that perfectly encapsulated this conflict. Daddy Duplass was trying to get Daughter Duplass into bed, and Daughter Duplass had a new balloon that she did not want to let go of. It went a bit like this:

DAD: Sweetheart, did you brush your teeth?

DAUGHTER: Yep.

DAD: Brush your hair?

DAUGHTER: Yep.

DAD: Okay. Thank you. Let’s get you to bed, love.

DAUGHTER: Okay.

(Daughter dutifully heads for bedroom, still holding balloon.)

DAD: Let’s leave the balloon out here, sweetie.

(Pause. Daughter is thinking. An idea comes.)

DAUGHTER: But I want to sleep with my balloon.

(Pause. Dad is now thinking. He knows that if he allows this little girl to bring the balloon into her room, there will be no sleeping tonight. There will only be playing with the balloon.)

DAD: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

DAUGHTER: Why not?

DAD: Because balloons are for playing, not for sleeping.

(The ridiculous shit we say as parents continues to surprise us.)

DAUGHTER: But I not going to play with it. I only going to sleep with it.

(And now Dad sees “the play.” If she continues to argue, even if she loses the argument she still gets to stay up later because she bought all this “awake” time by arguing. Even better, if she actually wins the argument, then she gets to stay up that much later playing with the balloon. She has somehow, at four years old, gotten herself into a win-win argument like a skilled corporate trial attorney. Cornered and exhausted, Dad now has no choice but to go into power play mode.)

DAD: I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s just the way it is.

(Pause. Quivering bottom lip now from Daughter. Is it real? Fake? Is there a difference? Shit.)

DAUGHTER: But, Daddy…I cannot sleep without my balloon.

(Aha! Dad realizes he has found a crack in her logic and the solution has laid itself bare. He has a chance after all.)

DAD: Honey, you definitely can sleep without that balloon.

DAUGHTER: I can’t.

DAD: Yes you can.

DAUGHTER: But I can’t, Daddy!

DAD: Sweetie, I know for a fact that you can sleep without that balloon.

DAUGHTER: How?

(Dad, excited, goes in for the kill.)

DAD: Because you just got this balloon today. And I have known you your entire life. And for your entire life you have gone to sleep every single night without that balloon.

(Bam. Nailed it. And now Daughter knows she has been caught. But surprisingly she does not give up. Dad watches her as her eyes seem to search the room and her own brain for another tactic. Some new approach to win this argument. Or at the very least extend the argument to win more precious time before bed. Then suddenly it hits her and she begins to speak, piecing together an argument that bears an intelligence way beyond her years.)

DAUGHTER: Yes, Daddy, I know that. But…you see…all the nights that I did sleep before this one…those were nights that I did not have my balloon. And now I do have my balloon, and I cannot sleep without it. Anymore. Ever.

(And Dad takes this blow to the chin hard. It’s a fantastic argument. It’s been executed with clarity and relative precision. Fuck. He knows he really should honor this hard mental work of hers. But at the same time, he cannot let that balloon into her room or else she will not sleep. She will stay up and play with that damn balloon all night, and tomorrow will be Armageddon for the entire family due to this one little girl’s lack of sleep. Dad has a decision to make. It’s a big one. He must consider not only this girl and himself but the entire family. And he is tired. And maybe not at his best right now. So…)

DAD: Honey, I’m not going to argue with you anymore. I’m taking the balloon, and it’s time for you to go to bed. And that’s final.

And, with that, Dad takes his daughter into her bedroom. She cries hard but eventually calms down as he reads her an extra book and lies with her until she falls asleep. And then Dad goes downstairs to finally get his free time. The kids are asleep. He can relax now.

But he can’t relax. Because he knows he screwed up. Because his daughter made an impeccably smart argument in the face of authority, and he shut it down with the blind hammer of a brute squad. And while he realizes he had her “best interests” in mind (getting her some good sleep so she won’t be exhausted the next day), he did not consider some longer-range interests of hers. That she is a girl. And that he is a man. And that one of the major lessons he needs to teach his daughter is that, with intelligence and a clear, strong, fair argument, she can topple any figure of authority that stands in the way of her goals. Particularly a male figure of authority.

Fuck.

So Dad beats himself up a little bit longer and then comes up with a plan. He calls it “One out of five.” And he allows himself the luxury to maintain his authority over his daughter in four out of five arguments. This approach will generally keep order in the house. But on that fifth argument, that one that she truly earns a win on, he must concede that win to her. To empower her so that when she is twenty-two years old at her first job and looks up at that boss standing in her way, she has the innate confidence (and historical precedent) to know she can move through that boss and accomplish her goals.

And then Dad goes upstairs and puts the balloon in his daughter’s room so that she can see it first thing when she wakes up. And watches her sleep for a bit longer. And he is flooded with equal parts lament and celebration that this child-parent collaboration is a complex puzzle whose grand mysteries will never fully reveal themselves.