Faking Hide and Seek

My toddlers play Hide and Seek like they are the adults. They hide only somewhat obscured, behind throw pillows or under the thin knee-length bedroom curtains, where they are clearly visible and sure to be found. At first, I thought this reflected a tenuous relationship with object permanence (are they only half-hiding because they are afraid they might otherwise totally disappear?) but then I watched them Seek. I mean, I watched them fake Seek. After standing with their eyes squeezed shut, covered by their hands, AND facing the wall (we take “no peeking” very seriously), after counting slowly through a series of random out-of-order numbers, they launch an overstated and loudly narrated search of only the most unlikely places.

“Is She In My Pocket?” (pause for searching)
“Noooo. Not In My Pocket! Is She On Top Of The Dresser?” (pause for searching)
“Noooo. Not On Top Of The Dresser!”

Each failed search is a shocking revelation! Then, with the same feigned commitment to the task, they voice fake frustration: “Oh Where Could She Be? I Just Can’t Find Her!” or get all existential and muse on the implications of a failed search: “What if I can’t find her? I guess she’ll just stay missing forever! What will I do with no Mommy? Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to keep looking just in case….” Throughout the game, round after round, they keep looking, carefully avoiding the obvious Hider (who is often reusing the same obvious hiding place), till every impossible place has been thoroughly searched. Sometimes this goes on so long that the Hider can’t help herself. She jumps out of hiding (“Here I am!”) and everyone authentically giggles at the (fake) surprise.

They play Hide and Seek like all adults tend to play, pretending we are capable of loosing entire human beings in our own living room and fretting over this possibility in exaggerated tones. But, unlike adults, they aren’t humoring someone else. They want to play again and again because fake Hide and Seek requires a certain dramatic flair that makes pretending to play even more fun than actually playing.

I can relate. I have been playing a game of faux Hide and Seek with my dissertation advisor for years. I hide out, pretending she can’t see how little progress I’m making toward completion. She pretends to look for progress with cheerful and vague emails that ask how I’m doing or if I’d like to “meet to talk”. Sometimes she narrates blatantly to reinforce the ruse (“You’ll surely have a chapter by the end of January!” or “You write fast. You’ll make fast progress.”). Occasionally the tension of fake hiding becomes too much and I jump out (“I’m behind schedule!”) and she authentically reassures me despite her (fake) surprise. “It gets easier the more you write” she says “Everyone goes through this.”

I picture dozens of graduate students trying to stay perfectly still, taking only shallow breaths, their faces buried in the literature they’ve already read or the rewrites of a section they’ve already rewritten or the TV or their pillows. They pretend noone knows that they are hiding there but the tension of hiding (yes, even fake hiding) builds up until they can’t stand it anymore. And all around them people keep pretending to seek with kind questions about how the work is coming along or when they’ll be done with their “little paper”. So many endless rounds of this!

Yet we keep playing because let’s face it: pretending to write a dissertation requires a certain dramatic flair and sometimes that is just a whole lot more fun than actually writing.

Parenting Izabella - when everyday is a carnival ride

Early last week, to celebrate their half birthdays, my toddler son and daughter gave themselves haircuts. They stole the kid-safe craft scissors out of the art supply cabinet and delighted in snipping off long 6 inch strands of her curls and short little puffs of his newly-professionally-cut hair. Down to the scalp.

He ended up with a dashing dart of baldness across the side of his head and the thinest sliver of skin where a little curl used to sit at the center of his forehead. Looking at him now you might think "Clumsy Barber" or, knowing better, you'd laugh (Ha Ha!) at the whimsical carelessness of youth. Darling child.

She ended up with a four-by-three inch path blazed down the center of her head riddled with nickle-sized bald patches and moody quarter-inch hair tufts that zigzagged madly upward. Looking at her, you might think "This is what the mullet would look like if anyone other than white people had tried it" or, knowing better, you'd cry (Dear God!) at how quickly something so beautiful could be so thoroughly trashed. It was her very first haircut.

I, of course, cried. Sobbed actually. Sobbed on and off for over an hour while I called friends and family to bemoan (dramatically) how ill-equiped I am for adult responsibility. ("I was doing dishes! I never get to do dishes! All i tried to do was do my dishes and now they are Bald! Bald! Do you understand? My babies are Bald!" or "What am I supposed to do? Last month Ron2 got an unpopped popcorn kernal in his lower eyelid! Before that he got a penny adhered to the roof of his mouth! and now this! He just got a haircut. There isn't any hair left on his head - how did he cut what he has with those tiny dull little scissors? How can I save them from themselves when they keep doing things that aren't even physically possible!?") My friends and family said tried to reassure: "No. It isn't your fault. Kids do these things. Well, okay, so kids don't do THESE things so much as far less absurd versions of these things. But someday you'll look back and think its funny. Its actually funny now. Describe her hair to me again. Can you send pictures? It's freaking funny, really, i mean, i'm sorry i'm laughing but... Tell me again what he said when you found them..."

I briefly contemplated moving to New York where my mother could help me raise these little wayward balding babies. But then I rallied. On principle, I insist on raising them myself, well, raising them as long as they survive, which suddenly didn't seem likely to be long. Post-Haircut every household object seemed menacing. No amount of childproofing could save them from themselves if they insisted on such reckless creativity. My only hope is Ron2's judgement. When I first discovered their joyful game (Iza said "Look Mommy! I cutting!" I said "Good Baby, what are you cutting?"), he mumbled under his breath "I knew I shouldn't have listened to Izabella. I knew it!" (Suddenly I see us outside a police station, she's 16, he'd tried to stop her from going to that party, wait, no, he'd tried to stop her from breaking into the zoo afterhours but she said they'd be back home before anyone knew they were missing and wouldn't it just be so much fun to see the animals at night?...) Now, seeing me cry as I held handfuls of Iza'a hair up to the heavens (why god why?), Ron2 hung his head remorsefully and patted my arm ("It's okay mommy. Izabella wanted to cut her hair.").

Iza, true to form, was nothing but Adventurous Charm in response to the crisis. She put on her tattered princess costume, danced on the dining room table, stole my phone to begin a riviting game of chase, etc etc. At first I thought she didn't even care that I was upset but later, in a quiet moment over lunch, she gravely said "I cut my hair" and then confessed to stealing and eating half a box of tic-tacs and two pieces of gum. Then: Remorse Iza Style. For the rest of the day, she'd spontaneously jump to me and plant fat enthusiastic noisy kisses on my cheeks.

Let me be clear - the kisses do not make the hair cut worth it and I wouldn't think twice before trading this funny memory for an intact head of gorgeous curly hair. But today, when I tried to fold laundry, Iza took the saddle off the cloth-covered rocking horse, removed her pants and diaper, and rode bare-back bare-butted while singing the title song to her school's xmas pageant ("He's the Messiah! Dum dah dah. He's the Messiah!"). And even though she wasn't on a real horse and even though she doesn't really have hair, I could see her riding through an open field, wind blowing through her hair, sun kissing her skin, iza sqeezing every joyful bit out of life. In that moment I knew her spirit is going to spare her more trouble then it's going to get her into.

Thank God she looks good in headbands.