The Agony and the Ecstasy of Hide and Seek, Part 1: Agony of Distractedness
Today (Child is 9)
I got up from my coffee and called out to her. No answer. Louder. WHERE ARE YOU!? I walk by the laundry room and there she is. Ducking inside the washing machine. She sees me and is instantly in tears. Inconsolable.
Fuck. We were playing Hide and Seek and I. JUST. FORGOT. In my Friday morning haze of caffeine and emails and half-hearted attempts to read my book, I’d committed the Cardinal Sin of Maybe. A memory became clear(ish). She’d asked to play Hide and Seek and I said some word salad version that included that potent seed of child disappointment: “Maybe.”
I don’t remember who shared it with me, the warning to never Maybe. Mahalo to the wise parent who said this to me, or to the creator of the parenting blog/podcast/book that I half-assed.
Here’s what I got from that parent. I think about it every day:
A parent will say maybe and mean No. Kids hear maybe and hear Yes. And that is a problem. That gap in expectation is called Disappointment.
[A moment of grace to the habitual Maybe-sayers. MAYBE (hah) we’re too distracted. Scared of our child’s reaction to rejection. For me, perhaps (haha) I’m just too obsessed with my image of being The Guy Who Says Yes to say the honest NO. ]
Her expectations were sky high. She’s in this amazing run of form, finding the most creative and amazing hiding spots, creating the most compelling diversions and decoys. (more on that in future happier episodes). She expected a trophy for her brilliant new hiding spot (first use of laundry machine ever in our history).
So she’d sat in the metal drum of a washing machine, eager to renew her status of being the familial GOAT at Hide and Seek. She sat there for FORTY minutes as I texted some professional gossip, downloaded another AI tool to my laptop, read half a page of my book, struggled to make coffee (again) and luxuriated in my passive paternal pride that my daughter is so capable of being independent and alone.
Our reward predictor brains were both about to experience a serious gap. I was expecting a reunion and hanging out after some refreshing alone time. She was expecting glory for her latest GOAT Hider feat.
Discovering her unleashed the tears. I’d raised my voice to find her in the house, craving some together time. But that raised voice has been used for so many other demanding, harrying utterances. My loudening voice broke open the floodgates. I hadn’t seen her cry like this in months. I felt the outpouring of her loneliness and feeling of being forgotten and abandoned. For many minutes she must have felt a sense of pride in her H&S “GOAT-ness” diligently stifling of her sound, contorting to fit the cold, uncomfortable and hole-y cylinder.
I thought of Becky Kennedy, of Good Inside, my Patron Parent of Repair. As my daughter declined to leave the washer (piggy back ride? popsicle? nothing worked), she sobbed it out, and I sat alone with my coffee and my book. How do I say sorry for this?
UPDATE
I was able to find a way to make it right. We’ve been doing a lot of “coupon books” and I made her vouchers for bouts of undistracted play.
