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The Case of the Angry Daughter The Case of the Angry Daughter
(32 minutes later)
My 5-year-old daughter had been called the Buddha baby. Not by me, but by many a stranger and friend — reliable observers. But when she starts kindergarten, she becomes, abruptly, no longer the Buddha baby. At night, she weeps and begs not to go to school. In the morning, the same. She is sad but also enraged. She kicks me for not having a banana. She punches me in the stomach for not being able to find her bumpy red ball. She says repeatedly that she is leaving to find a new family.My 5-year-old daughter had been called the Buddha baby. Not by me, but by many a stranger and friend — reliable observers. But when she starts kindergarten, she becomes, abruptly, no longer the Buddha baby. At night, she weeps and begs not to go to school. In the morning, the same. She is sad but also enraged. She kicks me for not having a banana. She punches me in the stomach for not being able to find her bumpy red ball. She says repeatedly that she is leaving to find a new family.
These moods and feelings, I’m told, are normal, a transition. But it doesn’t seem normal for her. At the preschool she attended for two years, she ran into her classroom in the morning; at most she wanted me to draw a turtle on a Post-it for her to wear during the day. She is still a loving and expressive girl, but suddenly I am in one moment “the best mama in the world” and then, seconds later, “the very worst mama in the whole wide world.”These moods and feelings, I’m told, are normal, a transition. But it doesn’t seem normal for her. At the preschool she attended for two years, she ran into her classroom in the morning; at most she wanted me to draw a turtle on a Post-it for her to wear during the day. She is still a loving and expressive girl, but suddenly I am in one moment “the best mama in the world” and then, seconds later, “the very worst mama in the whole wide world.”
It is around this time, late September, that the first of her detective-agency signs go up. There will be more to come, though I don’t know that then. “How do you spell ‘solves’?” G. asks me. “How do you spell ‘until’?” I don’t know what she is doing until she shows me: “GDOESCASESSOLVESUNTIL 8.”It is around this time, late September, that the first of her detective-agency signs go up. There will be more to come, though I don’t know that then. “How do you spell ‘solves’?” G. asks me. “How do you spell ‘until’?” I don’t know what she is doing until she shows me: “GDOESCASESSOLVESUNTIL 8.”
The letters go across the page left to right, then take the corner and return, backward, right to left. Beneath them is a spooky figure drawn in black marker who is holding ... a lollipop? No, she says: a magnifying glass. In the upper corner of the page, there is a red rectangle with an X through it and another dark and mysterious figure standing by. “That means I’m not available when I’m playing the piano,” G. says. She tapes her sign onto the wall of the living room — something she’s never done before.The letters go across the page left to right, then take the corner and return, backward, right to left. Beneath them is a spooky figure drawn in black marker who is holding ... a lollipop? No, she says: a magnifying glass. In the upper corner of the page, there is a red rectangle with an X through it and another dark and mysterious figure standing by. “That means I’m not available when I’m playing the piano,” G. says. She tapes her sign onto the wall of the living room — something she’s never done before.
This G., the calm detective and maker of informative signs, is a change from minutes earlier, when she slammed her door, wept and shouted, “If that ever happens again, you’re going to be eaten by fish!”This G., the calm detective and maker of informative signs, is a change from minutes earlier, when she slammed her door, wept and shouted, “If that ever happens again, you’re going to be eaten by fish!”
The “that” in this case was that I hadn’t yet gotten her a pumpkin for Halloween. The “being eaten by fish” imagery came to her from I have no idea where.The “that” in this case was that I hadn’t yet gotten her a pumpkin for Halloween. The “being eaten by fish” imagery came to her from I have no idea where.
G. loves detective stories for kids, and over the coming weeks, she shows that she has become attached to the idea of being a detective — she finds wallets, she follows prints — but what her detective-agency-and-rage phase really does is turn me into a detective: the reluctant, inept kind, who is never even sure if there’s been a crime.G. loves detective stories for kids, and over the coming weeks, she shows that she has become attached to the idea of being a detective — she finds wallets, she follows prints — but what her detective-agency-and-rage phase really does is turn me into a detective: the reluctant, inept kind, who is never even sure if there’s been a crime.
[Help your children overcome their fears.][Help your children overcome their fears.]
At G.’s elementary school, kids have to walk into the building alone. There’s not much choice in the matter; it’s a crowded public school, and there’s not enough space for both kids and parents. So by the second week of kindergarten, when G. is still unwilling to walk into the school, she is dragged in by her armpits by an officer of the law. A kind, maternal officer of the law, sure, but maybe that is a mistake I make, letting that happen. But the other kids — hundreds of them — are simply walking into the building, no problem.At G.’s elementary school, kids have to walk into the building alone. There’s not much choice in the matter; it’s a crowded public school, and there’s not enough space for both kids and parents. So by the second week of kindergarten, when G. is still unwilling to walk into the school, she is dragged in by her armpits by an officer of the law. A kind, maternal officer of the law, sure, but maybe that is a mistake I make, letting that happen. But the other kids — hundreds of them — are simply walking into the building, no problem.
It’s a sunny, friendly school, so far as I can tell. The worst anecdote G. brings home — “It is so bad, I can’t tell you,” she says, before telling me — is that someone at lunch said grapes make you fat. Also, a second grader told her “to shoo.” The art center, she complains, is often already full when she wants to go there. Surely these setbacks are insufficient explanation for her feelings. I need a better clue to her personality change, to her distress.It’s a sunny, friendly school, so far as I can tell. The worst anecdote G. brings home — “It is so bad, I can’t tell you,” she says, before telling me — is that someone at lunch said grapes make you fat. Also, a second grader told her “to shoo.” The art center, she complains, is often already full when she wants to go there. Surely these setbacks are insufficient explanation for her feelings. I need a better clue to her personality change, to her distress.
As the weeks go by, G.’s anger, dread of school and fear of separation don’t ease; they intensify. I ask friends and family for advice; I ask them often, sometimes texting after 11 p.m. To a one, they respond with the tolerance of an unusually nice pediatrician being woken from sleep with a phone call about an earache: It’s only kindergarten! But from the inside, it feels overwhelming. Is it because she doesn’t like “girlie” things? Is it math? Is it a tumor? Are the other kids terrible people who should be taught how to treat my child?As the weeks go by, G.’s anger, dread of school and fear of separation don’t ease; they intensify. I ask friends and family for advice; I ask them often, sometimes texting after 11 p.m. To a one, they respond with the tolerance of an unusually nice pediatrician being woken from sleep with a phone call about an earache: It’s only kindergarten! But from the inside, it feels overwhelming. Is it because she doesn’t like “girlie” things? Is it math? Is it a tumor? Are the other kids terrible people who should be taught how to treat my child?
One afternoon, in her backpack, I find a drawing she made at school: an orange “I,” a red heart, a blue “U” and then a scary, frowning stick person with wild black hair pointing in every direction.One afternoon, in her backpack, I find a drawing she made at school: an orange “I,” a red heart, a blue “U” and then a scary, frowning stick person with wild black hair pointing in every direction.
“Oh, that,” G. says. “That means I love you even when I’m mad at you.”“Oh, that,” G. says. “That means I love you even when I’m mad at you.”
The one other durable clue G. has provided is her ongoing, and unceasing, interest in detective stories. She makes me and her father tell her detective stories on the subway. She asks to have detective stories read to her in the evening: the Nate the Great series, the High-Rise Private Eyes series, “The Case of the Hungry Stranger,” “The Case of the Scaredy Cats,” “Aunt Eater’s Mystery Christmas,” “Detective Dinosaur.” I have Googled to find pretty much any detective series written for kids, which often means I’m ordering used children’s books in library bindings. Most are from the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the genre seems to have been in full bloom, in tandem with the heyday of Scooby-Doo. “I’m available to solve a case,” she keeps telling us. “Do you have any cases for me?” We try to come up with cases. “A real one,” she says. “Not like a lost pen.” Maybe I need to take her game more seriously.The one other durable clue G. has provided is her ongoing, and unceasing, interest in detective stories. She makes me and her father tell her detective stories on the subway. She asks to have detective stories read to her in the evening: the Nate the Great series, the High-Rise Private Eyes series, “The Case of the Hungry Stranger,” “The Case of the Scaredy Cats,” “Aunt Eater’s Mystery Christmas,” “Detective Dinosaur.” I have Googled to find pretty much any detective series written for kids, which often means I’m ordering used children’s books in library bindings. Most are from the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the genre seems to have been in full bloom, in tandem with the heyday of Scooby-Doo. “I’m available to solve a case,” she keeps telling us. “Do you have any cases for me?” We try to come up with cases. “A real one,” she says. “Not like a lost pen.” Maybe I need to take her game more seriously.
As a genre, the detective story has often found popularity at moments of great social upheaval, as if it somehow helps to make overwhelming trauma more manageable. The wild popularity of Agatha Christie novels in England followed swiftly the deaths of hundreds of thousands of young British soldiers in the First World War. Detective Hercule Poirot, who first appears in a Christie novel in 1920, is a Belgian refugee from the war, arrived to the English countryside. Of her Tommy and Tuppence detective duo, introduced in her 1922 novel “The Secret Adversary,” the reader learns that Tuppence and Tommy both served in “the Great War” and that Tommy was injured. Christie herself famously disappeared — when her first husband was having an affair. She left the disappearance out of her autobiography, though at the time it was an international news story. Her husband attributed it to amnesia.As a genre, the detective story has often found popularity at moments of great social upheaval, as if it somehow helps to make overwhelming trauma more manageable. The wild popularity of Agatha Christie novels in England followed swiftly the deaths of hundreds of thousands of young British soldiers in the First World War. Detective Hercule Poirot, who first appears in a Christie novel in 1920, is a Belgian refugee from the war, arrived to the English countryside. Of her Tommy and Tuppence detective duo, introduced in her 1922 novel “The Secret Adversary,” the reader learns that Tuppence and Tommy both served in “the Great War” and that Tommy was injured. Christie herself famously disappeared — when her first husband was having an affair. She left the disappearance out of her autobiography, though at the time it was an international news story. Her husband attributed it to amnesia.
The Sherlock Holmes stories, which preceded Christie’s, grew to prominence after the Industrial Revolution. The lower classes were coming into new roles; the old order was being shaken. The archnemesis of Holmes is the criminal Moriarty — an Irish, and therefore lower-class, name. Holmes himself is an aesthete who meets his assistant, Watson, when he needs someone to share the rent. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the series, attended posh British schools but had Irish-Catholic roots, his heart on both sides. Instead of facing the changing fortunes of whole social classes, the stories let the contemporary reader confront disguised fears one tidy plot at a time.The Sherlock Holmes stories, which preceded Christie’s, grew to prominence after the Industrial Revolution. The lower classes were coming into new roles; the old order was being shaken. The archnemesis of Holmes is the criminal Moriarty — an Irish, and therefore lower-class, name. Holmes himself is an aesthete who meets his assistant, Watson, when he needs someone to share the rent. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the series, attended posh British schools but had Irish-Catholic roots, his heart on both sides. Instead of facing the changing fortunes of whole social classes, the stories let the contemporary reader confront disguised fears one tidy plot at a time.
Mysteries are a comforting narrative structure for managing social shifts and loss. Kindergarten is clearly a battle on a much tinier scale. But any life from the inside can feel like the “Iliad,” especially when you’re a child. Maybe G. is telling me, or herself, something about a tremendous battle, an overwhelming fear.Mysteries are a comforting narrative structure for managing social shifts and loss. Kindergarten is clearly a battle on a much tinier scale. But any life from the inside can feel like the “Iliad,” especially when you’re a child. Maybe G. is telling me, or herself, something about a tremendous battle, an overwhelming fear.
We carve that first pined-for pumpkin too many weeks in advance of Halloween. Sitting in our humid, hurricane-weather hallway, it turns moldy within three days. Now it’s scary in the wrong way. G. is furious. “I am losing more than my temper,” she screams. Then she weeps. We go buy another pumpkin. We go that afternoon. She is overjoyed. Back home, I tell her to be careful holding the carving tool. “You ruin everything!” she yells at me. She storms away to hide under her blanket and weep again.We carve that first pined-for pumpkin too many weeks in advance of Halloween. Sitting in our humid, hurricane-weather hallway, it turns moldy within three days. Now it’s scary in the wrong way. G. is furious. “I am losing more than my temper,” she screams. Then she weeps. We go buy another pumpkin. We go that afternoon. She is overjoyed. Back home, I tell her to be careful holding the carving tool. “You ruin everything!” she yells at me. She storms away to hide under her blanket and weep again.
Eventually we carve off a lid from the pumpkin. G. pulls it up by the stem. The stringy squash strands and gooey seeds hang down, and G. exclaims joyfully: It looks like a chandelier!Eventually we carve off a lid from the pumpkin. G. pulls it up by the stem. The stringy squash strands and gooey seeds hang down, and G. exclaims joyfully: It looks like a chandelier!
Has she ever seen a chandelier? Her observation weirdly throws me. Her inner life is more than what I myself have populated it with — a bittersweet shift. I should be glad, I tell myself, that she is growing. That she knows about, for example, fish eating people. And about chandeliers.Has she ever seen a chandelier? Her observation weirdly throws me. Her inner life is more than what I myself have populated it with — a bittersweet shift. I should be glad, I tell myself, that she is growing. That she knows about, for example, fish eating people. And about chandeliers.
I go to the bathroom to wash pumpkin goo off my hands. Now she is furious again, at my “leaving” her to wash my hands. “If you ever do that ever, ever again,” she shouts about my hand-washing, “I’m going to lose more than my love. You are breaking more than my heart.” I hurry out of the bathroom, hands still wet.I go to the bathroom to wash pumpkin goo off my hands. Now she is furious again, at my “leaving” her to wash my hands. “If you ever do that ever, ever again,” she shouts about my hand-washing, “I’m going to lose more than my love. You are breaking more than my heart.” I hurry out of the bathroom, hands still wet.
[Dealing with agression in children.] [Dealing with aggression in children.]
A close intellectual cousin of the detective is the psychoanalyst. Someone has a dream about strawberries or about wolves sitting in a tree — what does it really mean? People knock analysis, or revere it, which either way obscures the field’s gift for offhand illumination. One kind of clue in analysis is a mésalliance — a mismatch. It can be a sign that something meaningful is being disguised, lies in wait in an association. The mésalliance here, I’m suspecting, is the mismatch between the intensity of feeling and the referenced event that provoked the feeling. Why does a Halloween pumpkin matter so much? What overwhelming story or fear or feeling has been Trojan-horsed inside?A close intellectual cousin of the detective is the psychoanalyst. Someone has a dream about strawberries or about wolves sitting in a tree — what does it really mean? People knock analysis, or revere it, which either way obscures the field’s gift for offhand illumination. One kind of clue in analysis is a mésalliance — a mismatch. It can be a sign that something meaningful is being disguised, lies in wait in an association. The mésalliance here, I’m suspecting, is the mismatch between the intensity of feeling and the referenced event that provoked the feeling. Why does a Halloween pumpkin matter so much? What overwhelming story or fear or feeling has been Trojan-horsed inside?
I don’t know.I don’t know.
In G.’s Nate the Great books, the breaks in cases often occur when Nate is not thinking about the case directly; the breaks come when he is taking a break, usually by eating pancakes. That indirect form of searching is also what Freud, and Proust, and even Poe present with their searches after the unconscious, or lost time, or the criminal.In G.’s Nate the Great books, the breaks in cases often occur when Nate is not thinking about the case directly; the breaks come when he is taking a break, usually by eating pancakes. That indirect form of searching is also what Freud, and Proust, and even Poe present with their searches after the unconscious, or lost time, or the criminal.
Chandelier, Chandler. G.’s dad sometimes tells her “Chandler stories.” It’s Chandler, Girl Detective, like Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective. In the stories, Chandler lives next door to the trio of boys who featured in the core stories that G.’s dad told to her three older brothers, when they were around her age. Part of the thrill of these stories for G. is that they are a secret from me. They are just for her and her dad to know. That’s the running family bit — that I’m desperate to know what happened, but they’re not going to tell me.Chandelier, Chandler. G.’s dad sometimes tells her “Chandler stories.” It’s Chandler, Girl Detective, like Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective. In the stories, Chandler lives next door to the trio of boys who featured in the core stories that G.’s dad told to her three older brothers, when they were around her age. Part of the thrill of these stories for G. is that they are a secret from me. They are just for her and her dad to know. That’s the running family bit — that I’m desperate to know what happened, but they’re not going to tell me.
I file Chandler/chandelier away. Some flowers bloom in shadow — impatiens, fuchsias — and maybe G. is asking for some shadow, for some benign neglect. Maybe kindergarten is somewhat difficult for her, but what’s even more difficult is that I can tell it’s difficult for her. Part of what is frustrating as a child is that everyone knows your business.I file Chandler/chandelier away. Some flowers bloom in shadow — impatiens, fuchsias — and maybe G. is asking for some shadow, for some benign neglect. Maybe kindergarten is somewhat difficult for her, but what’s even more difficult is that I can tell it’s difficult for her. Part of what is frustrating as a child is that everyone knows your business.
Or maybe not.Or maybe not.
The next morning, a Tuesday, G. announces that it’s Saturday.The next morning, a Tuesday, G. announces that it’s Saturday.
I counter that it is Tuesday.I counter that it is Tuesday.
She insists: No, it’s Saturday.She insists: No, it’s Saturday.
I don’t yield on the Tuesday point. Nor does she yield on the Saturday point.I don’t yield on the Tuesday point. Nor does she yield on the Saturday point.
She refuses to get dressed for school. Because it’s Saturday! This escalates, and maybe I raise my voice and say, “O.K., I’m going to school by myself.” A weak strategy. She storms off straight to ... her markers. She takes a black Sharpie and a sheet of paper. She draws another large, scary frowning stick person with wild hair. This time the figure also has big, club hands; in the corner, she draws a smiling, smaller stick figure, holding a magnifying glass, examining a shoe print. She then draws a large black X across the whole drawing.She refuses to get dressed for school. Because it’s Saturday! This escalates, and maybe I raise my voice and say, “O.K., I’m going to school by myself.” A weak strategy. She storms off straight to ... her markers. She takes a black Sharpie and a sheet of paper. She draws another large, scary frowning stick person with wild hair. This time the figure also has big, club hands; in the corner, she draws a smiling, smaller stick figure, holding a magnifying glass, examining a shoe print. She then draws a large black X across the whole drawing.
I hesitate to inquire what it means.I hesitate to inquire what it means.
She doesn’t wait for me to inquire. She tapes it onto the wall, next to her earlier sign. “This means the detective does not see people who are very rude.”She doesn’t wait for me to inquire. She tapes it onto the wall, next to her earlier sign. “This means the detective does not see people who are very rude.”
We go to school that Tuesday. It’s the worst school in the world, she tells me on the way there. You are the worst mama in the world.We go to school that Tuesday. It’s the worst school in the world, she tells me on the way there. You are the worst mama in the world.
Then on the block of her school, her tone abruptly changes. Mama, I love you to the moon and back and back again, she says. (It is terrible to be put in touch with the unconscionable amount of power you have over your child.) You are the best girl in the world, she says. Please, Mama, please don’t make me go. Please. Please. She cries. O.K. Pick me up as soon as possible.Then on the block of her school, her tone abruptly changes. Mama, I love you to the moon and back and back again, she says. (It is terrible to be put in touch with the unconscionable amount of power you have over your child.) You are the best girl in the world, she says. Please, Mama, please don’t make me go. Please. Please. She cries. O.K. Pick me up as soon as possible.
In “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd,” by Agatha Christie, the reader eventually discovers that it is the narrator — the voice we have come to trust — who has been the murderer all along. Am I the guilty party in the mystery of my daughter’s unhappiness? I am dimly aware that the thinking on the kind of separation anxiety that G. is experiencing — the anxiety and its accompanying rage — is that children who feel safe and loved are able to separate easily. Only the children who do not feel safe and loved and attached have trouble being away from their caregiver when the time comes.In “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd,” by Agatha Christie, the reader eventually discovers that it is the narrator — the voice we have come to trust — who has been the murderer all along. Am I the guilty party in the mystery of my daughter’s unhappiness? I am dimly aware that the thinking on the kind of separation anxiety that G. is experiencing — the anxiety and its accompanying rage — is that children who feel safe and loved are able to separate easily. Only the children who do not feel safe and loved and attached have trouble being away from their caregiver when the time comes.
I dismiss this line of thinking. One, because it is unflattering. But also, I am the mother who is altogether too around. Before G. was born, I had planned to drop her off at day care as soon as possible; I found a place that would take her at 2 months old. I was surprised that no one would take her after, say, a week. I read only one book about babies before she was born — a book about getting babies to sleep. But then G. was born. If someone else held her, I felt empty and wrong. If ever I had to be away for a day for work, the way it felt inside of me was as if I had been posted in a distant port for a season of war. I felt this way even as at the same time I knew that my being away was an opportunity for her to bond more closely with her dad. Which is to say: from birth, we had been together nearly all the time. I took her to school most days; I picked her up from school most days; I brought her on work trips; I brought her to dinner with friends.I dismiss this line of thinking. One, because it is unflattering. But also, I am the mother who is altogether too around. Before G. was born, I had planned to drop her off at day care as soon as possible; I found a place that would take her at 2 months old. I was surprised that no one would take her after, say, a week. I read only one book about babies before she was born — a book about getting babies to sleep. But then G. was born. If someone else held her, I felt empty and wrong. If ever I had to be away for a day for work, the way it felt inside of me was as if I had been posted in a distant port for a season of war. I felt this way even as at the same time I knew that my being away was an opportunity for her to bond more closely with her dad. Which is to say: from birth, we had been together nearly all the time. I took her to school most days; I picked her up from school most days; I brought her on work trips; I brought her to dinner with friends.
If this baby (now child) needs something, the one thing she can’t possibly need is more time with me. And though it feels wrong to say it out loud, I feel confident that my daughter knows I love her, and that we are attached. And though I’m as prone to melancholy as every other person I know, I don’t find it plausible that I am withholding, or absent on account of mood — another favored theory.If this baby (now child) needs something, the one thing she can’t possibly need is more time with me. And though it feels wrong to say it out loud, I feel confident that my daughter knows I love her, and that we are attached. And though I’m as prone to melancholy as every other person I know, I don’t find it plausible that I am withholding, or absent on account of mood — another favored theory.
The famous British pediatrician and analyst D.W. Winnicott, most famous for his concept of “the good-enough mother,” argued that children live in two worlds: a rich, imaginative one and a more prosaic one; a mother’s job is to let the more ordinary world come through in small doses. Have I somehow dosed out kindergarten, or life before kindergarten, all wrong? Had I chosen too tender and beautiful a preschool? Have I been around too much?The famous British pediatrician and analyst D.W. Winnicott, most famous for his concept of “the good-enough mother,” argued that children live in two worlds: a rich, imaginative one and a more prosaic one; a mother’s job is to let the more ordinary world come through in small doses. Have I somehow dosed out kindergarten, or life before kindergarten, all wrong? Had I chosen too tender and beautiful a preschool? Have I been around too much?
It can feel powerful to find yourself at fault. And I will always be a prime suspect. But these first notions sound off key.It can feel powerful to find yourself at fault. And I will always be a prime suspect. But these first notions sound off key.
Maybe have her dad drop her off? my brother suggests. Which helps. A tiny bit.Maybe have her dad drop her off? my brother suggests. Which helps. A tiny bit.
She rages and weeps through September, she rages and weeps through October, she rages and weeps into November. I cancel any plans with friends. I cancel work trips. She begs me to always be there. My acceding to her demand must only confirm her belief that what is happening between us — that every now and again we are apart — is catastrophic. But the case remains cold.She rages and weeps through September, she rages and weeps through October, she rages and weeps into November. I cancel any plans with friends. I cancel work trips. She begs me to always be there. My acceding to her demand must only confirm her belief that what is happening between us — that every now and again we are apart — is catastrophic. But the case remains cold.
Then at the first parent-teacher conference, I am given an essential clue. Maybe.Then at the first parent-teacher conference, I am given an essential clue. Maybe.
G. is easygoing, her teacher tells me. She’s happy. She talks to lots of her classmates. She often has something she wants to share or say.G. is easygoing, her teacher tells me. She’s happy. She talks to lots of her classmates. She often has something she wants to share or say.
Really? I ask.Really? I ask.
Yes.Yes.
She’s happy during the day? I ask again.She’s happy during the day? I ask again.
Yep.Yep.
Does she have friends in class?Does she have friends in class?
The teacher explains that there’s a rash of so-and-so-is-my-best-friend, and G. doesn’t have her one person, but, the teacher says, not all kids need that, right?The teacher explains that there’s a rash of so-and-so-is-my-best-friend, and G. doesn’t have her one person, but, the teacher says, not all kids need that, right?
So she’s happy during the day? I ask yet again.So she’s happy during the day? I ask yet again.
Her teacher laughs: “And she’s always saying to me, ‘You’re the best girl in the world!’ I try to explain to her, I make mistakes; no one needs to be the best.”Her teacher laughs: “And she’s always saying to me, ‘You’re the best girl in the world!’ I try to explain to her, I make mistakes; no one needs to be the best.”
I think about that one. G. is still crying about going to school in the morning. She is still crying about going to school at night. Sunday is a particularly horrible day, anticipating the week ahead. But is G. angry and terrified of separation from me because she ... is having such a great time without me? Maybe learning that she can be happy without me is distressing.I think about that one. G. is still crying about going to school in the morning. She is still crying about going to school at night. Sunday is a particularly horrible day, anticipating the week ahead. But is G. angry and terrified of separation from me because she ... is having such a great time without me? Maybe learning that she can be happy without me is distressing.
I think of the Frog and Toad stories by Arnold Lobel. Frog and Toad are best friends, and other characters hardly even exist in their world. A snail helps deliver a letter; some robins laugh when Toad tries to fly a kite; but Frog and Toad are everything to each other, and no one else, and nothing else, much matters.I think of the Frog and Toad stories by Arnold Lobel. Frog and Toad are best friends, and other characters hardly even exist in their world. A snail helps deliver a letter; some robins laugh when Toad tries to fly a kite; but Frog and Toad are everything to each other, and no one else, and nothing else, much matters.
Frog is the bigger and more confident and steady of the pair. Toad is more anxious and clingy and lovable and small. In one story, “The Dream,” Toad dreams that he is on a stage, doing amazing things. He plays the piano. He walks a high wire. He is cheered and hurrahed. All the while his best friend, Frog, sitting in the audience, is shrinking. Clapping and shrinking. And shrinking more. Until finally he disappears altogether. Toad panics, calling out for Frog again and again. Frog wakes a terrified Toad from his dream. “I’m right here,” Frog says.Frog is the bigger and more confident and steady of the pair. Toad is more anxious and clingy and lovable and small. In one story, “The Dream,” Toad dreams that he is on a stage, doing amazing things. He plays the piano. He walks a high wire. He is cheered and hurrahed. All the while his best friend, Frog, sitting in the audience, is shrinking. Clapping and shrinking. And shrinking more. Until finally he disappears altogether. Toad panics, calling out for Frog again and again. Frog wakes a terrified Toad from his dream. “I’m right here,” Frog says.
I should feel good about this, I tell myself.I should feel good about this, I tell myself.
“I really am a detective, even if you don’t believe me,” G. tells me, apropos of nothing I can myself detect. But when did I tell her she wasn’t a detective? She finds my lost keys in the hallway. She is triumphant in discovery. I am the one who is losing things, not her.“I really am a detective, even if you don’t believe me,” G. tells me, apropos of nothing I can myself detect. But when did I tell her she wasn’t a detective? She finds my lost keys in the hallway. She is triumphant in discovery. I am the one who is losing things, not her.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used to say, of the creation of his Holmes stories, that he had wanted to write mysteries whose solutions did not rely upon chance discoveries over time. He wanted, instead, scientific thinking to lead to the solutions. Conan Doyle trained as a physician, and he modeled Holmes in part on a doctor under whom he had studied, Dr. Joseph Bell. An observant physician can deduce pulmonary disease from ridges on fingernails, hypertension from an eye exam, a heart problem from a gentle shake of the hand. That was what Conan Doyle wanted for Holmes: a detective who could read a person’s profession and nationality from the color of dirt on his shoe at the moment that he came knocking at 221B Baker Street. The drama of detection is not one of action but of thought. The most important clues for solving the mystery are there from the very beginning, rather than revealed, by chance discovery, over time.Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used to say, of the creation of his Holmes stories, that he had wanted to write mysteries whose solutions did not rely upon chance discoveries over time. He wanted, instead, scientific thinking to lead to the solutions. Conan Doyle trained as a physician, and he modeled Holmes in part on a doctor under whom he had studied, Dr. Joseph Bell. An observant physician can deduce pulmonary disease from ridges on fingernails, hypertension from an eye exam, a heart problem from a gentle shake of the hand. That was what Conan Doyle wanted for Holmes: a detective who could read a person’s profession and nationality from the color of dirt on his shoe at the moment that he came knocking at 221B Baker Street. The drama of detection is not one of action but of thought. The most important clues for solving the mystery are there from the very beginning, rather than revealed, by chance discovery, over time.
What if all the clues to the changes in G.’s mood were there from the beginning of her story? The very beginning? What if they didn’t come out over time; what if the ever-present clue was time itself?What if all the clues to the changes in G.’s mood were there from the beginning of her story? The very beginning? What if they didn’t come out over time; what if the ever-present clue was time itself?
It’s early pickup. I go to get G. Another day of feeling it’s nearly impossible for me to get my work done. I’ll let her watch videos when we come home, I think, so that maybe I can finish. G. draws a heart on my hand in pink pen. She wants to play checkers at the coffee shop around the corner. I say today we’ll have to play checkers at home. She says she’s going to kick me in the face if we don’t play checkers Right Now. I say that I promise we can play a round first thing when we get home. She wants a chocolate stick. I say we’re not getting a chocolate stick. She says if she doesn’t get a chocolate stick, then she’s not taking one more step toward the subway. She says I ruin everything. She’s going to tell Papa that I ruined everything.It’s early pickup. I go to get G. Another day of feeling it’s nearly impossible for me to get my work done. I’ll let her watch videos when we come home, I think, so that maybe I can finish. G. draws a heart on my hand in pink pen. She wants to play checkers at the coffee shop around the corner. I say today we’ll have to play checkers at home. She says she’s going to kick me in the face if we don’t play checkers Right Now. I say that I promise we can play a round first thing when we get home. She wants a chocolate stick. I say we’re not getting a chocolate stick. She says if she doesn’t get a chocolate stick, then she’s not taking one more step toward the subway. She says I ruin everything. She’s going to tell Papa that I ruined everything.
She has her fists up, in a fighting stance. She wants the chocolate and the checkers right now. Our checkerboard at home is black and white, and the one at the coffee shop is black and red. She tells me she will be so mad at me unless we play checkers “on the red board” and get a chocolate stick. I pick her up to walk the half block to the subway. She is only 5, and one day I won’t be able to carry her anymore, but for now I can move her through space against her will.She has her fists up, in a fighting stance. She wants the chocolate and the checkers right now. Our checkerboard at home is black and white, and the one at the coffee shop is black and red. She tells me she will be so mad at me unless we play checkers “on the red board” and get a chocolate stick. I pick her up to walk the half block to the subway. She is only 5, and one day I won’t be able to carry her anymore, but for now I can move her through space against her will.
On the subway, she asks me to tell her a detective story. I say I don’t have any stories in my head. She suggests Mickey Mouse and the case of the missing trophy. I say when people shout at a person all the stories go out of her head, and it takes a little time for them to come back. We sit there in the moving subway car. The man across from us indicates to me that my daughter is crying. “I want you to tell me the Mickey Mouse and the case of the missing trophy story right now!” she says. I don’t tell a story. She lies down on my lap and says she’s tired. When we get off the subway, she asks me to carry her again, and I carry her the last four blocks home. She is smiling. She is kissing my cheek, now she’s sucking on my cheek and nearly giving me a hickey.On the subway, she asks me to tell her a detective story. I say I don’t have any stories in my head. She suggests Mickey Mouse and the case of the missing trophy. I say when people shout at a person all the stories go out of her head, and it takes a little time for them to come back. We sit there in the moving subway car. The man across from us indicates to me that my daughter is crying. “I want you to tell me the Mickey Mouse and the case of the missing trophy story right now!” she says. I don’t tell a story. She lies down on my lap and says she’s tired. When we get off the subway, she asks me to carry her again, and I carry her the last four blocks home. She is smiling. She is kissing my cheek, now she’s sucking on my cheek and nearly giving me a hickey.
“Someone’s coming home in a good mood,” her dad says to her when we get home.“Someone’s coming home in a good mood,” her dad says to her when we get home.
“More like a tired mood,” she says.“More like a tired mood,” she says.
A third detective-agency sign goes up. The detective is large and smiling at the center, again near a shoe print and holding a lollipop/magnifying glass. Next to the detective’s head is a backward “S” followed by an “H.” Then in the upper left-hand corner is a smaller stick figure, next to a box with many circles in it. Then the whole page has a large X through it, like the second detective-agency sign.A third detective-agency sign goes up. The detective is large and smiling at the center, again near a shoe print and holding a lollipop/magnifying glass. Next to the detective’s head is a backward “S” followed by an “H.” Then in the upper left-hand corner is a smaller stick figure, next to a box with many circles in it. Then the whole page has a large X through it, like the second detective-agency sign.
Hesitantly, I ask her what the sign means.Hesitantly, I ask her what the sign means.
“It means the detective agency is closed on Saturdays and Sundays.”“It means the detective agency is closed on Saturdays and Sundays.”
I ask, “What is the box and the person in the corner?”I ask, “What is the box and the person in the corner?”
“That’s lost treasure. It can’t be found.”“That’s lost treasure. It can’t be found.”
Conan Doyle killed off his famous detective in “The Final Problem” but was coerced by public pressure to bring Holmes back to life again. Conan Doyle devoted the later years of his life not to writing but to defending the claims of spiritualists. He would defend the veracity of photographs of ghosts and of fairies. Conan Doyle’s son died of influenza shortly after the war. The author believed the dead could speak to the living, as did his wife, Jean, who became a medium and an automatic writer. The family communicated regularly with a spirit guide named Pheneas, who advised the Conan Doyles on various things, such as when and where to travel.Conan Doyle killed off his famous detective in “The Final Problem” but was coerced by public pressure to bring Holmes back to life again. Conan Doyle devoted the later years of his life not to writing but to defending the claims of spiritualists. He would defend the veracity of photographs of ghosts and of fairies. Conan Doyle’s son died of influenza shortly after the war. The author believed the dead could speak to the living, as did his wife, Jean, who became a medium and an automatic writer. The family communicated regularly with a spirit guide named Pheneas, who advised the Conan Doyles on various things, such as when and where to travel.
Conan Doyle needed at once to be the man of science he had dreamed up and also have a way to believe his son’s spirit was still within reach; he went to great lengths to defend as real photographs of fairies taken by children. The couple once invited their friend Harry Houdini to a séance; Lady Conan Doyle contacted Houdini’s beloved dead mother. Lady Conan Doyle took dictation of a lengthy letter from Houdini’s mother. Houdini went on to denounce mediums vociferously; the friendship ended. Conan Doyle cared too much for his child to let him go, and Houdini cared too much for his mom to take false comfort.Conan Doyle needed at once to be the man of science he had dreamed up and also have a way to believe his son’s spirit was still within reach; he went to great lengths to defend as real photographs of fairies taken by children. The couple once invited their friend Harry Houdini to a séance; Lady Conan Doyle contacted Houdini’s beloved dead mother. Lady Conan Doyle took dictation of a lengthy letter from Houdini’s mother. Houdini went on to denounce mediums vociferously; the friendship ended. Conan Doyle cared too much for his child to let him go, and Houdini cared too much for his mom to take false comfort.
By December, G. remains out of sorts and still protests going to school, but something is shifting. She says it’s fine for this year, but next year she will be returning to her preschool. Another afternoon, she tells me she’s thinking about something so, so, so, so sad. It’s so sad she can’t say it. She can’t tell me, she just can’t: She is thinking about the song about the five little ducks, do I know it? I do know it. One by one the little ducks fly away from mother duck. Another day she asks me if I have a jacket that has thumb holes like her jacket’s. I did once have a jacket with thumb holes like that, I say. It was a beautiful and cozy jacket; I really loved it. Where did it go, what happened to it? she asks of my old jacket. I don’t remember, I say. I guess it got old.By December, G. remains out of sorts and still protests going to school, but something is shifting. She says it’s fine for this year, but next year she will be returning to her preschool. Another afternoon, she tells me she’s thinking about something so, so, so, so sad. It’s so sad she can’t say it. She can’t tell me, she just can’t: She is thinking about the song about the five little ducks, do I know it? I do know it. One by one the little ducks fly away from mother duck. Another day she asks me if I have a jacket that has thumb holes like her jacket’s. I did once have a jacket with thumb holes like that, I say. It was a beautiful and cozy jacket; I really loved it. Where did it go, what happened to it? she asks of my old jacket. I don’t remember, I say. I guess it got old.
“I am thinking about your jacket, and there are tears in my eyes,” she says, shaking her head at the tragedy of it all.“I am thinking about your jacket, and there are tears in my eyes,” she says, shaking her head at the tragedy of it all.
When her dad is out of town for a week, she becomes even more gentle, even though she still doesn’t want to go to school. She can intuit that the resources in the home are diminished, that there’s less room for trouble. Winnicott says it’s terrible for a child to accommodate to reality too early; isn’t it too early? “If I had a tiger, I would name him Fierce But Love,” she announces on the walk home from school. “Is there a housefly tooth fairy?” she asks me later, over a slice of pizza at a corner shop where a housefly buzzes around. When I say I don’t know if houseflies have teeth, she doesn’t yell at me and tell me how wrong I am; she says, “Of course houseflies have teeth.” I am probably a “worse” mom than usual that week, while her father is briefly away, but maybe I am a better “good-enough mother” — which is to say, a better mom. Or maybe not, maybe I need too much from her that week. G. and I sleep in the same bed, more for me than for her.When her dad is out of town for a week, she becomes even more gentle, even though she still doesn’t want to go to school. She can intuit that the resources in the home are diminished, that there’s less room for trouble. Winnicott says it’s terrible for a child to accommodate to reality too early; isn’t it too early? “If I had a tiger, I would name him Fierce But Love,” she announces on the walk home from school. “Is there a housefly tooth fairy?” she asks me later, over a slice of pizza at a corner shop where a housefly buzzes around. When I say I don’t know if houseflies have teeth, she doesn’t yell at me and tell me how wrong I am; she says, “Of course houseflies have teeth.” I am probably a “worse” mom than usual that week, while her father is briefly away, but maybe I am a better “good-enough mother” — which is to say, a better mom. Or maybe not, maybe I need too much from her that week. G. and I sleep in the same bed, more for me than for her.
“Mama, your head is hot,” she says. “But don’t worry, I like hotheads.”“Mama, your head is hot,” she says. “But don’t worry, I like hotheads.”
After she falls asleep, I find myself thumbing through some of the (admittedly thousands) of photos of G. on my phone. I make a minor unwelcome discovery: I often take photos of 5-year-old G. from an angle that makes her look like 3-year-old G. I could scroll through years of photos of her and somehow maintain the illusion that she is not getting bigger or older. When she was really little, I used to bend down and photograph her eye to eye. Over time, I seem to have done less and less of that. The more recent photos are often taken from an angle that leaves her head as oversize as a toddler’s, her legs foreshortened, her feet like a doll’s not too far away from her waist.After she falls asleep, I find myself thumbing through some of the (admittedly thousands) of photos of G. on my phone. I make a minor unwelcome discovery: I often take photos of 5-year-old G. from an angle that makes her look like 3-year-old G. I could scroll through years of photos of her and somehow maintain the illusion that she is not getting bigger or older. When she was really little, I used to bend down and photograph her eye to eye. Over time, I seem to have done less and less of that. The more recent photos are often taken from an angle that leaves her head as oversize as a toddler’s, her legs foreshortened, her feet like a doll’s not too far away from her waist.
Am I not letting her grow up? Or worse: Am I dropping clues for her to interpret that her growing up is not O.K. with me? Is she angry and confused because, on some level, she feels that to get older is to put our bond at risk? Maybe her rages are experiments to make certain that she can trespass my will — that she can be independent — and that I will still be there. That I will still think and feel that she is, of course, the best girl in the world.Am I not letting her grow up? Or worse: Am I dropping clues for her to interpret that her growing up is not O.K. with me? Is she angry and confused because, on some level, she feels that to get older is to put our bond at risk? Maybe her rages are experiments to make certain that she can trespass my will — that she can be independent — and that I will still be there. That I will still think and feel that she is, of course, the best girl in the world.
I had started to love the detective-agency signs G. made, even though I was a monster in them. But the next morning, G. takes them off the wall and throws them in the garbage. She seems embarrassed, as if she realized that they revealed something about her, that they weren’t simply useful announcements about her agency.I had started to love the detective-agency signs G. made, even though I was a monster in them. But the next morning, G. takes them off the wall and throws them in the garbage. She seems embarrassed, as if she realized that they revealed something about her, that they weren’t simply useful announcements about her agency.
Discreetly, I rescue the signs from the garbage.Discreetly, I rescue the signs from the garbage.
I hadn’t noticed before what all the signs had in common: None of them announced when the detective was available. They all announced when she was not. They specified not when the agency was Open, but when it was Closed.I hadn’t noticed before what all the signs had in common: None of them announced when the detective was available. They all announced when she was not. They specified not when the agency was Open, but when it was Closed.
It is January, late on the night before school starts again after the long winter break. G. is again weeping and begging me not to send her to school; or if she does go to school, then I have to be in the classroom with her the whole time. The anger and fear is more intense than ever. “You have two choices!” she shouts through tears. Falling asleep is impossible. “I am losing more than my temper! You are breaking more than my heart!” This goes on for more than two hours. Her father, level as any Chandler, Girl Detective narrator ought to be, confirms to me that it really has been two hours. He can’t get her to sleep, either. All the old standbys fail. Someone has sent us a book in the mail about a tiger, a beautiful book, which looks too serious for G.’s taste, but at least it’s new and unfamiliar. As a late and 900th resort, I try reading it to her.It is January, late on the night before school starts again after the long winter break. G. is again weeping and begging me not to send her to school; or if she does go to school, then I have to be in the classroom with her the whole time. The anger and fear is more intense than ever. “You have two choices!” she shouts through tears. Falling asleep is impossible. “I am losing more than my temper! You are breaking more than my heart!” This goes on for more than two hours. Her father, level as any Chandler, Girl Detective narrator ought to be, confirms to me that it really has been two hours. He can’t get her to sleep, either. All the old standbys fail. Someone has sent us a book in the mail about a tiger, a beautiful book, which looks too serious for G.’s taste, but at least it’s new and unfamiliar. As a late and 900th resort, I try reading it to her.
On the first page of the story, I discover that the tiger is angry because her cubs have been killed. I think about putting the book away. Instead, I warn G. that some parts of the story will be sad and ask her if she still wants to read it.On the first page of the story, I discover that the tiger is angry because her cubs have been killed. I think about putting the book away. Instead, I warn G. that some parts of the story will be sad and ask her if she still wants to read it.
“But in the end it’s O.K.?” she asks.“But in the end it’s O.K.?” she asks.
I say I think so, yes.I say I think so, yes.
In her rage and mourning, the mother tiger has been attacking villages. Her violent rage seems unending, and unstoppable. The king, in desperation, turns to a wise woman for advice. She tells him: You must give your child to the tiger. The king is afraid and angry. The queen is afraid and angry. The child is quietly courageous and ready. He goes to the tiger without hesitation.In her rage and mourning, the mother tiger has been attacking villages. Her violent rage seems unending, and unstoppable. The king, in desperation, turns to a wise woman for advice. She tells him: You must give your child to the tiger. The king is afraid and angry. The queen is afraid and angry. The child is quietly courageous and ready. He goes to the tiger without hesitation.
The tiger raises the prince as her own. The prince faces dangers, shows courage, learns the tiger’s ways. The tiger stops attacking villages.The tiger raises the prince as her own. The prince faces dangers, shows courage, learns the tiger’s ways. The tiger stops attacking villages.
But meanwhile the king and queen don’t know if their son, who has grown so much, is still alive. They are devastated. They send soldiers to destroy the tiger.But meanwhile the king and queen don’t know if their son, who has grown so much, is still alive. They are devastated. They send soldiers to destroy the tiger.
The prince defends the tiger with his life. At that moment, the queen emerges from the crowd, to reunite with her beloved child. The story then flashes forward to the boy, now a man, bringing his own child out to the mother tiger. Once the full cycle is depicted, the story is over.The prince defends the tiger with his life. At that moment, the queen emerges from the crowd, to reunite with her beloved child. The story then flashes forward to the boy, now a man, bringing his own child out to the mother tiger. Once the full cycle is depicted, the story is over.
At the end of the book, there is a drawing of a bronze vessel from the 11th century B.C. that references the story of the Tiger Prince, confirming that the drama of leaving home is one of the oldest stories around.At the end of the book, there is a drawing of a bronze vessel from the 11th century B.C. that references the story of the Tiger Prince, confirming that the drama of leaving home is one of the oldest stories around.
G. wants to read “The Tiger Prince” again. And again. She stops crying and shouting. She calms down, falls asleep and goes to school the next day with some, but not too much, trouble. I’m still playing with the toys the story has set out. The rage is the tiger’s, not the child’s; the rage is frightening and destructive but also reassuring — a symptom of how powerfully children are loved. The child’s leaving home is not an abandonment; it is heroic — he is saving the village. The child grows up — it’s not avoidable — but he grows up well.G. wants to read “The Tiger Prince” again. And again. She stops crying and shouting. She calms down, falls asleep and goes to school the next day with some, but not too much, trouble. I’m still playing with the toys the story has set out. The rage is the tiger’s, not the child’s; the rage is frightening and destructive but also reassuring — a symptom of how powerfully children are loved. The child’s leaving home is not an abandonment; it is heroic — he is saving the village. The child grows up — it’s not avoidable — but he grows up well.
The writer Joy Williams once observed in a novel that children vanish without dying. G. has not vanished, yet, but by spring, she does start to anticipate rather than dread going to school. She goes from finding recess and lunch the “worst” part of the day — because her teacher is not there — to “the best.” She starts reassuring me that she will never leave me, she will stay at home even when she grows up, which must mean she knows she will one day leave. When spring break comes, she wants to be reassured that she is not missing any days of school — that all the kids are not there. She is still interested in mysteries but now wants to alloy them with “spooky” stories. She wants to be told mystery stories about zombies, vampires, witches, ghosts and werewolves. Chandler, Girl Detective, has already faced several vampires, though I’m not supposed to know about that. Though she tells me about it. “But vampires don’t really exist, right?” she asks. She wants to be reassured about that. Then told more stories about them.The writer Joy Williams once observed in a novel that children vanish without dying. G. has not vanished, yet, but by spring, she does start to anticipate rather than dread going to school. She goes from finding recess and lunch the “worst” part of the day — because her teacher is not there — to “the best.” She starts reassuring me that she will never leave me, she will stay at home even when she grows up, which must mean she knows she will one day leave. When spring break comes, she wants to be reassured that she is not missing any days of school — that all the kids are not there. She is still interested in mysteries but now wants to alloy them with “spooky” stories. She wants to be told mystery stories about zombies, vampires, witches, ghosts and werewolves. Chandler, Girl Detective, has already faced several vampires, though I’m not supposed to know about that. Though she tells me about it. “But vampires don’t really exist, right?” she asks. She wants to be reassured about that. Then told more stories about them.
Often with mysteries, people remember the setups but forget the resolutions. A storied diamond goes missing and ... other stuff happens. A decapitated body is found by a canal in Paris, and ... someone was responsible, not the person you first thought. The not-knowing part is more essential than the knowing. The not-knowing is the cozy feeling the reader seeks.Often with mysteries, people remember the setups but forget the resolutions. A storied diamond goes missing and ... other stuff happens. A decapitated body is found by a canal in Paris, and ... someone was responsible, not the person you first thought. The not-knowing part is more essential than the knowing. The not-knowing is the cozy feeling the reader seeks.
I never really solve the mystery of G. and kindergarten. The anxiety rises and falls a few more times, but by summer, I drop her off at a summer camp, in a different city, in a different language, where she knows nobody, and on the first day, she simply smiles and waves goodbye.I never really solve the mystery of G. and kindergarten. The anxiety rises and falls a few more times, but by summer, I drop her off at a summer camp, in a different city, in a different language, where she knows nobody, and on the first day, she simply smiles and waves goodbye.
G.’s grandmother, who has four children and 12 grandchildren, once told me that raising children is like being moved around in a theater. When children are very young, you are the director of the play of their life. Later you have front-row seats for what is happening with them. Then maybe fourth-row seats. They get older, and you, the parents, get to watch from the front of the mezzanine. But you keep getting moved farther back. Eventually you’re so far, you’re in the seats they used to call paradise.G.’s grandmother, who has four children and 12 grandchildren, once told me that raising children is like being moved around in a theater. When children are very young, you are the director of the play of their life. Later you have front-row seats for what is happening with them. Then maybe fourth-row seats. They get older, and you, the parents, get to watch from the front of the mezzanine. But you keep getting moved farther back. Eventually you’re so far, you’re in the seats they used to call paradise.