The cliche about anxious, controlling people states that bossiness conceals a sense of inner turmoil. If I'm telling you precisely what to do, it's because there is a storm "on the inside," and the finger-wagging at least distracts me from myself.
This is the enduring theme of "Finding Nemo"; a dad in mourning can't allow his child to make any mistakes. It's best to become a suffocating force, in the dad's calculation, because this way of life means you don't have to pay attention to your own sense of hurt.
Although I can recognize the folly of the dad's ways, I have trouble internalizing the lesson. I know this. I know because--literally right after the movie--my daughter asks to have chocolate milk. I begin to "err," right away. The kind of chocolate syrup I'm using is wrong. I've chosen a blue cup, when my daughter wants a red cup. Also, the volume of chocolate--and thus the chocolate-to-liquid ratio--seems to be off.
At this point, it's clear what my child wants; she just wants a bunch of props and a chance to make a mess. But I can't quite "get there"--intellectually or emotionally. And warfare ensues. I try to use logic. "Susie, you're not even making consistent arguments." Amazingly, this doesn't work.
We've found a new gay author--maybe the last of the pantheon--John Steptoe. Having triumphed with "The Story of Jumping Mouse," Steptoe died of AIDS at the age of 38. Almost no one on-line seems to concede that Steptoe was gay. The exception is Jesse Green, in "The New York Times."
I did not score many parenting points, in the chocolate milk discussion--but at least I can offer John Steptoe's work to my daughter.
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