CIA Handbook for Moms
Let’s talk about interrogation techniques, shall we? Let’s imagine there is a tiny yet vital piece of information in your four-year-old’s brain that you need to extract—say, the location of his shoes. Now, if you’re dealing with a neurologically stable, hormonally balanced, not-diabolically possessed person who is at least passingly competent in your language, you might simply ask, “Where are your shoes?” But a four-year-old is none of those things. A four-year-old will respond to direct questions by tapping a finger against his lips in a simulacrum of reflective thought, then give an answer that (33% of the time) doesn’t make sense, contextually. Witness:
Puppy, where are your shoes?
Sometimes (56% of the time), the answer will merely be unhelpful:
They’re somewhere in the house. (More finger tapping.) Or outside the house.
Invariably, the answer will be wrong (with maybe a .3% lucky-guess correct-response rate.)
So how do you get at the little fact your four-year-old has squirreled away? I’m telling you right now that you can rule out the what-were-you-doing-when line of questioning. Four-year-olds are insensitive to the passage of time. Anything that happened to Puppy before this exact moment that we’re in right now happened when he was three. When Puppy goes to bed tonight and wakes up in the morning, it will still be today. Perhaps this visual aid will help demonstrate my meaning:
The lower half of the timeline (pale green) reflects how rational people perceive the flow of time; the upper half (pale blue) reflects Puppy’s perception of time.
Clearly, time-based questions are futile. Though, there is a flavor of chronological interrogation that I employ from time to time—not because it’s successful but because I’m desperate. I call it attempted hypnotism, and this is how it looks like:
Puppy, remember when you were riding your bike in the driveway after nap?
Uh-huh.
And you were wearing your shoes?
Uh-huh.
And you came inside through the garage, right?
Yep.
And you took off your shoes—remember that?
Nods head.
Where did you put your shoes?
My hands were cold on the bike and I needed my gloves with the spiders on them, but if I eat the ‘nola [granola] bar with my gloves on, the crumbs stick to the gloves. Mommy, why is it cold outside?
Because it’s springtime in Seattle, honey. When you came in for the granola bar, did you take off your shoes?
I already had the ‘nola bar. I came in for the gloves.
Okay, and did you take off your shoes?
Why?
Because they’re missing.
Just like the dune buggy is missing!*
Other interrogation techniques I have tried:
The philosophical approach: Puppy, if you were a pair of lost shoes, where would you be?
The ambush: Holy smokes, look at the size of that crow where did you put your shoes?!
The sing-song subliminal: If you’re happy and you know it find your shoes—where are they!
(I’m morally incapable of using this one, but it’s popular in certain circles.) The maternal-guilt play: If you loved me, you would find your shoes.
Alas, a four-year-old’s mind is locked down tighter than a lid on a bottle of children’s suspension Advil when your baby is shrieking and your head is pounding from that third glass of wine you allowed yourself because it’s Friday and surely the kids will sleep in tomorrow but no, the baby is cutting molars beginning now. Just accept that you will not learn the location of the missing shoes from the person who last handled them.
We looked in all of the logical places for a four-year-old’s shoes: the freezer (which is where Kitten stores her socks), the garbage can (where Kitten stores her nuks), the box of Christmas ornaments shoved into the farthest reaches of our attic. The shoes simply—POOF!—disappeared. And we’re taking bets as to when we will find them. Here are the wagers thus far; let me know if you would like to get in on the action:
Husband: As soon as we buy a new house.
intrepid librarian: When we move.
Neighbor with two under-fives: As soon as he outgrows the missing pair.
*The dune buggy toy disappeared about two years ago, but Puppy brings it up whenever something is newly lost. He has a litany of lost things he periodically runs through: the dune buggy, the door wedge, the light-up shoes… I think it comforts him, his mantra of lost things. I should get him a dashboard statue of the patron saint of lost things. Care to wager how long before he loses it?