It’s amazing the number of confrontations and tantrums we’ve avoided by giving L a time frame. Simply establishing a temporal structure allows us all to avoid frustration. She knows what to expect and, more importantly, when; we know that we’ll have a much more compliant little girl.

It works for almost everything. When L is watching a movie, it’s referenced in terms of the film’s scenes: “When this scene is over, we’ll go for our bath.” The scene finishes; she toddles off to the bathroom when requested to do so. When L is reading a book before bedtime, a reminder that she’ll be going to be in five minutes elicits “Okay”; saying, out of the blue, “Okay, put the book up. It’s time for bed!” is likely to produce nothing but conflict.

It would if some parts of life had more pre-established time frames.

Photo: “Clock Top” by laffy4k

The room was dark; L and I were in the rocking chair, just moments before she went to bed. A time to calm down, this time of day often brings out stories about how L’s school day went.

L began telling me about the order they sit in during circle time.  She’s in a new group, and most of the children in there are new friends, so there were lots of new names floating about. She hardly finished one name when she started another. Then a pause.

“And beside Alex…” her voice tapered off.

“Who’s beside Alex?”

“I don’t know.” We rocked for a few moments, then she amended it. “I don’t know her name.”

“Why don’t you ask her.”

“No,” said L in a quick, clipped voice: it’s how she’s shortened “I don’t know” for many months.

“You just have to introduce yourself. Walk up to her and say, ‘Hi. My name’s L. What’s your name?’” A few more rocks, then I suggested we practice.

Within a few moments, she began improvising — “What’s your name? My name’s L.” — and adding a handshake with, “Nice to meet you.”

The following night, I asked her how it went. “Did you meet that girl from your circle time?”

“No,” she replied, and then gave a meandering explanation that only a toddler could come up with. Still, we practiced again.

“She’s so easy-going!” I’ve heard several people at L’s school mention this, and I’m certainly pleased about it. When I hear this, I’m also a little confounded about the Miss Hyde that appears on a daily basis at our house. “Easy-going” is not how I’d describe her distressingly often; “high-maintenance” and “tiring” are the words I’d choose.

Familiarity, in this case, truly leads to a sort of contempt (though that really is much too strong a word). She’s lately taken to behavior that, while I knew was possible irrespective of the quality of parenting, I never really believed would appear. Not being clairvoyants, we are unable to peer, or even peek, inside her head to find out what’s causing this. Exhaustion is certainly part of it, as she’s not getting enough sleep; stress is definitely a component, for she’s moved into a new group at her preschool and all that was known and comfortable has disappeared. But there must be more to it than that, and, as with the classroom, we’re left wondering whether we’re doing everything we can.

The evidence was everywhere: an empty wrapper; brown stains around the mouth; dark smears down the front of the dress; cocoa breath; the knick-knack box that stored chocolates sent from Babcia in Poland on the floor open.

“L, did you eat chocolate?” I ask.

She put her head down in shame — a new trick — and the looked up and said calmly, “No.”

I look at her quizzically and ask again. I get the same answers.

And suddenly, everything I’d learned about parenting during the last thirty-one months goes out the window. “How do you deal with someone lying who isn’t old enough to know what truth is?”

Some quick research shows that my assumption was right:

Your toddler lies because at this age he’s not yet able to differentiate between reality and fantasy. Until he’s 3 or 4, your toddler won’t fully grasp the concept of lying, because he doesn’t yet understand the idea of an objective truth based in fact. (S.Denham)

And yet, it didn’t seem like the the best idea simply to ignore it. Denham goes on to provide suggestions in her article, but standing there, looking at a chocolate smeared little girl who’d just told me ever so sweetly, “No, I didn’t eat chocolate,” I experienced something I hadn’t experienced at home for quite some time. At school, this happens quite frequently, but at home — not so much. In short, I stood there dumbfounded, wondering what in the world is the “right” way to handle the situation.

I told her that she’d lied, and I explained what that mean in concrete terms: “You told me you didn’t eat the chocolate, but you did eat it.”

And from there? Everything that came to mind just seemed so pedantic and ineffectual.

“Teach about the truth” is now on the parenting to-do-when-she’s-old-enough list.

Image: morguefile.com