A is for Advent: A Three-Year-Old's Perspective

H is for Headstrong

Timmy will not subdued by dominoes. It's the principle of the thing, really. It isn't about the effort required to pick up the dominoes he'd left strewn across the floor. It's about the psychological sacrifice required to start. A psychological sacrifice he simply isn't prepared to make.

"...You can get down when you're ready to pick up the dominoes," Mum is saying.

Timmy sits on his little wooden chair, one foot tucked around the leg supports, the other toeing the carpet. He doesn't have anything in his hands—he isn't allowed—so he just stretches the outside corners of his eyes with his hands, and watches his sight diminish as his lids close. He releases them. Stretches them again. It's something to do.

He almost misses the days when Mum would just yell at him when he refused to do something. The longer he'd refused, the louder she'd repeat the instruction, until eventually she'd be so furious and exasperated that she'd eventually get to the 'Go to your room!' part. That was a good part, because then he could just hang out on his bed and look out the window. He would think about important Timmy things from the comfort of his duvet. And usually, Mum would be doing the job she'd been bugging him to do in the first place, because she didn't want to look at it anymore.

Those were good days. Those were days when a little patience got you out of having to do annoying stuff. Like picking up dominoes.

Timmy watches Mum. He won't look at the dominoes. He won't. The next time Mum looks at him, he has an idea. Maybe he can get off this chair without having to pick up dominoes.

"Sorry...Mummy...for...being...rude..." The words come out of him, staccato, with rote familiarity. They're good for getting him out of his room. Maybe they're good for getting him off his chair, too.

"Are you ready to pick up the dominoes?" Mum says.

Timmy frowns and kicks the floor. Well, so much for that idea.

"No?" Mum says. "Okay, just keeping sitting there, then." Her voice is irritatingly calm. Like this isn't bothering her at all.

Maybe it isn't. She just keeps tapping away at her laptop, at the table. Music plays. The smell of cooking pizza wafts from the kitchen. No, his incarceration isn't bothering her at all.

Timmy doesn't like it.

"...Wanna get down, Mummy," he says. Bleakly. Almost pleading. Almost. Not really, though. It's the principle of the thing.

"Are you ready to put the dominoes in the bag, now?" That same irritating calm.

Timmy frowns and kicks at the floor. No. He won't, won't, won't.

"Okay," Mum says. "Keep sitting there then. It's up to you when you get down."

After a long time has passed—several seconds, at least—he tries stealth. He already knows just getting off the chair won't work. She'll just put him back, as many times as he does it. He has to be sneaky. He has to do it so slowly she doesn't even realise he's leaving. She musn't hear anything.

He shifts his weight to his feet. Slowly. He puts his hands on the sides of the his chair. He pushes. Slowly.

His backside is two inches above the chair when Mum looks at him. He freezes. She blinks.

"Oh, are you ready to pick up the dominoes?"

Timmy sits.

Mum types.

Music plays.

Pizza cooks.

Mum's already told him that he's not getting pizza until he's picked up the dominoes, either. He can smell it more, now. It must be almost done. Stakes are getting higher, and Timmy shifts uncomfortably. This time it's got nothing to do with the hardness of the chair.

He stands.

Mum stops typing and watches him.

He moves to the dominoes and crouches down. Gathers. Starts putting them in their bag.

"Thank you," Mum says. Calm. Typing.

Timmy has not been subdued by dominoes. He's picking them up now because he chooses to, thank you very much.

It's the principle of the thing.