THE INVISIBLE HAND

Dear Spike:

I'm not above deal-making.

Some folks might call it bribery. I prefer "free market education." You've got a certain supply of good behavior. I have a high demand for this product. The invisible hand takes it from there.

But lately, I've been thinking we might just need a little more regulation. Someone is manipulating the markets.

In general, your biggest incentive for using the potty is that you need to go. And so I don't usually have to offer anything more than a congratulatory "hip hip, hooray!" for you to do what you need to do.

But when we're in a rush to get somewhere — and I know you need to "go before you go." The market takes over. Lollypops get involved. Sweet, sweet capitalism.

That was the case yesterday, when I needed to get you off to the babysitter so that I could make an afternoon appointment. I stripped off your bottoms, sat you on your little potty, and waited for the action to begin.

No deal.

"Lolly?" I asked.

"Lolly!" you said, and held out your hand.

"You need to pee first," I said.

Generally, this is all that it would take to induce a tinkle. But you just didn't have to go. And this obviously was causing a crisis in the market. Now I had the supply. You had the demand. But you just didn't have the capital you needed to complete the transaction.

And so what did you do?

You lied.

"Hip hip hooray!" you squealed, still sitting on the pot. "Hip hip hooray!"

"Did you go?" I asked.

"Hip hip hooray! Tinkle! Tinkle!" you answered.

I handed you the lolly and you popped it into your mouth, still sitting on the potty.

I turned to go and invited you to come, but your little butt remained firmly planted in its seat. It was only then that I realized I'd been taken in an elaborate Ponzi scheme.

I think there's grounds for some sort of federal investigation, but given the fed's record, of late, I guessing you're probably safe for now.

Love,
dad

WHATEVER AILS YOU

Dear Spike:

As a matter of parental responsibility, we always kiss your boo-boos. Being rather boo-boo prone, you get a lot of kisses. And so lately you've come to expect a little smooch to cure whatever ails you.

So when you got a splinter in your hand at the playground: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"

And when you got scratched on your leg by the cat: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"

And when you bumped your head on the cabinet: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"

In almost every other situation, your mother and I wouldn't let you get by with demanding anything from us without so much as a "please" and then a "thank you."

But when you're in pain, we always comply. Finishing school can wait. Boo-boos can't.

But today, I really had to draw the line.

You were running around your bedroom when you lost your footing, spun around backward and fell — bum first — onto a wooden block. Unfortunately, you don't really have much of a butt to speak of, so I'm sure it smarted something fierce.

You writhed on the ground before jumping up, hand on butt, to ask for daddy's magic remedy.

"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you screamed.

I looked down at you and shook my head.

"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you pleaded.

"No way, Jose," I said.

"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you cried.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Say please."

"Pleeeeeeeaaaase! Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"

I complied. And just like that, you were all better.

My dignity? That's another story entirely.

Love,
dad

BOB BOB BOB

Dear Spike:

For a while now, we've been letting you watch "Bob the Builder" videos, usually in the early afternoons when you're getting restless, I'm trying to get some work done, and your mother is not quite home from school.

But it seems that in addition to your little milk problem,  you've developed a significant case of Bobaholism.

As in: 

Spike's Dad: "What's your name?"

Spike: "Bob."    

Spike's Dad: "No, your name is not Bob."

Spike: "Bob."

Spike's Dad: "I'll give you a hint, your name starts with a..."

Spike: "Bob."

Spike's Dad: "That's not even a letter."

Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob."

Spike's Dad: "If I let you watch Bob, will you stop saying Bob?"

Spike: (Nods solemnly.)

Spike's Dad: "You promise?"

Spike: (Eyes wide. Continues to nod solemnly.)

Spike's Dad: "OK. But just one episode."

Spike: (chin trembling.)

Spike's Dad: "Don't do that."

Spike: (chin trembling.)

Spike's Dad: "Oh please don't do that."

Spike: "Bob Bob?"

Spike's Dad: "No, just one Bob."

Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob?"

Spike's Dad: "No. No. No." 

Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob, Bob, Bob!"

Spike's Dad: "OK. Forget it. No Bob."

Spike: (chin trembling) "No Bob?"

Spike's Dad: "Don't do that."

Spike: "Love-oo daddy?"

Spike's Dad: "That's not fair."

Spike: "Love-oo! Love-oo daddy!"

Spike's Dad: "That's SO not fair."

Spike: "Love-oo daddy... ... ... ... Bob?"

This afternoon your Auntie Sue came over to watch you while your mother was in a night class. I showed her where your food was, where your toys were and, finally, where the computer was hidden...

Spike's Dad: Here's the computer. If she get crabby and there's just nothing else that works, feel free to put on a B--O--B video.

Spike: Bob!?

Auntie Sue: She can spell?

Spike's Dad: (sighs) Um, apparently so.

Spike: (proudly) Bob! Bob! Bob, Bob, Bob!

Love,

dad

P.S. — You mother just now...

Spike's Mom: (reading over Spike's Dad's shoulder) "She did not say 'Love-oo Daddy,' did she?" 

Spike's Dad: (unhappily) "Yes. As a matter of fact she did."

Spike's Mom: (laughing) "She said that just to get her way?"

Spike's Dad: "Yes. And I'm adding a new word to label the blog posts..."

Spike's Mom: "What?"

Spike's Dad: "Manipulation." 

Spike's Mom: (smiling broadly) "She's SOOOOOO my child!"