Outwit, Outplay, Outlast

My nine-year-old daughter is playing contentedly in her room.  I am puttering around the house.  I walk through the front hall and stumble on a pair of pink sneakers with super-sparkly laces.

 Me (calling upstairs):  Riley, will you come down and put your shoes away please?

Her:  Ok, Daddy.

(Five minutes pass.  I walk through the front hall again.)

Me:  Riley.  Please.  Come down here and take your shoes upstairs so people don’t trip on them.

Her:  Can't you just move them?

Me: No, I can't just move them.  They're your shoes.  

Her: But I’m in the middle of something important. 

Me: What, you're in the middle of a teleconference?  Get down here and Put.  Your.  Shoes.  Away.

Her:  Ok.

Me (voice raising slightly):  Now.

Her:  I said ok!

Me: Saying ok isn't the same thing as doing it.  Please do it.

Her:  I will!

(I wait at the bottom of the stairs, listening for movement. I know what she's doing.  She's up there sprawled on the floor, reading comic books.  Just as I’m about to get loud for real, I hear floorboards squeaking.  Whew.)

Me (calling up, feeling satisfied):  Thank you, kiddo.  I appreciate it.

Her (calling down):  You’re welcome.

(Ten minutes later, I walk through the front hall again, this time carrying a basket full of laundry.  I trip on something.)

Me: GAH!!!  RILEY!  GET DOWN HERE!

Her (clomping downstairs):  What????

Me:  What do you mean, "what?"  Are you kidding me?  What did I ask you to do? 

Her:  Um. I don't remember.

Me:  Give me a break.

Her:  Something about feet?

Me:  Shoes!  Riley, your shoes!  I just tripped on them and almost KILLED MYSELF!  Put them away!  Now!

Her:  Ok, ok!  Why do you have to yell at me?  Sheesh!

(I pause before answering, breathing slowly to make my forehead vein stop throbbing.)

 Me (trying to calm down):  Riley.  Sweetheart.  I don’t always yell at you.  I only yell at you when talking to you normally doesn’t work.  If you don’t want me to yell at you then just do what I ask you to do.

Her: Fine, fine, fine.  Whatever.  

Me:  Whoa.  Wait.  Stop.  Stop RIGHT there.

Her (feigning innocence):  What?

 Me:  Did you just “whatever” me?

 Her:  No.

 Me:  You totally did.

 Her:  No I didn’t.

Me:  Listen to me.  Are you listening?  You are not allowed to use the word “whatever” around me or any other adult.

Her:  Why?

Me:  You know why.  We've talked about why.

Her:  I forget.

Me: When you say “whatever” in response to someone, you’re being dismissive.  You’re telling them that what they’re saying doesn’t matter to you, that you think you’re too important to waste your time listening to them.  You probably don't like it when someone says "Whatever" to you, right?

Her:  I don't know.  I don't think it would be a big deal.

Me:  Well... it's a big deal to me.  It’s rude, and it drives me crazy.  I hate it.

Her:  Daddy, it’s not nice to say you hate something.

Me:  I -- what?

Her (primly):  It’s wrong to hate people.

Me:  You’re missing my point.  I’m not saying I hate people who say it.  I just hate that word.

Her:  That's interesting.  What other words do you hate?

Me:  I don’t know, I guess words that are used to make someone feel – DO NOT DISTRACT ME.

Her:  Your face is all red.

Me:  Look.  Just keep in mind that when a kid says “Whatever,” it makes adults really angry.  Because of the reasons I said before.

Her:  You and Mommy say it sometimes.

Me:  I’m pretty sure we don’t. 

Her:  I heard you yesterday.  Mommy asked you if you wanted peas or carrots with your chicken and you said “Whatever.”

Me:  Well—I’m—Sure, I mean, we’ve probably said it before.  But we don’t say it to someone who’s actually trying to talk to us about something important.

Her:  So I can say “Whatever” to someone if they’re not saying something important?

Me: 

Her:  Daddy, is saying “Whatever” worse than yelling at someone?

Me:

Her:  Because I think yelling at someone is way worse.

Me:  I told you.  I was only yelling because you made me yell.

Her:  I thought you said people don't make people do things.  You said people are responsible for their own behavior.

Me:

Her:  How about this: I’m sorry I made you yell if you’re sorry for yelling at me.

Me:  I...  fine.  You got a deal.  Sorry.

Her:  That’s ok, Daddy.  I forgive you.

Me:  Good.  Thank you very much.

Her:  You’re very welcome.

She pats me on my head sweetly and bounces back upstairs, as I slump on the landing, not sure what just happened.  We ended the conversation in some sort of accord, so that’s good, I guess. 

I stand, feeling better as I pick up the laundry basket, and trip over a pair of sparkly sneakers.