Little Lawyers Everywhere

Ever wonder what makes a good lawyer? Behold, it is your little one, the super lawyer in the car seat. Kids come armed with the skills of a trained litigator, trial lawyers already, growing in the womb.

Instinctively expert at forum shopping, manipulation, and debate, they could bloody F. Lee Bailey in the backyard wading pool long before they're eight. Masterful negotiators, stern and forceful promulgators (DO NOT ETER THIS ROOM UNLESS YOU KNOCK FIST), they come equipped with elephant memories and perfectly callibrated bull sh-t meters.

As adults we loom large, the inevitable and unwitting targets of these formidable foes. Even the most stalwart of parents will disintegrate in a face-off with these verbal warriors. "Alright, G-damn it. Go have a sugar coma. Eat the effing cookie." But be forewarned: this Perry Mason moment is kiddie catnip to a child. He will be thrust into an endless, frantic spiral, compelled to pursue countless more victories with the tenacity of a crack addict.

So when your little one arrives, it's time to get down and lawyered up. Here, a brief tutorial of what to expect.

* Forum shopping: Which parent (or third party) is most likely to give the kid what he wants? Mr. M is a champion forum shopper. As in, "Hmm. Hmm. I would like a Sprite. Who best to prey upon, at this moment? Is it Mom? The waiter? (as I exit for the bathroom) Yes, the waiter. I'll ask him for a Sprite right now." (See also shuttle diplomacy, as in "Dad, Mom said I can't have any chocolate milk, but I know you'll say yes since I haven't had any sugar all day.")

* Cross-examination: kids just know how many times and in how many ways they must ask the question to get the desired answer. Mr. M: "But you just said you wanted me to be happy on my first day of school. Are you now saying I CANNOT have this new lunch box? Have you lost your mind? Have you already forgotten what you said?" (See also, framing the issue)

* Framing the issue: You can get the answer you want to any question, so long as you ask the right question. Mr. M: "Mom, do you want me to be the happiest kid there is?" (Me, like Charlie Brown's teacher: wonk wonk wonk) "Okay. You're the one who said it. I get to wear my Spiderman suit every day for the first week of school. It's all settled then." (Me: wonk wonk WONK!) They also try their luck at framing the answer. Me: "Why are these dirty clothes on the floor next to the hamper?!" Mr. M: "I aimed wrong."

Then there is the ubiquitous, "Okaaaay . . . I'll take that as a yes," when you are on the phone, doing the Heimlich on your neighbor, or are otherwise engaged. And when all else fails for the child litigator, you will often hear, "That's your final answer! And today is opposite day!"

* Manipulation: "Thanks, Mom. You're the BEST! I love you, mom. Oh, mom, I love you so so much."

Caveat: over time, this technique becomes progressively more layered (though still readily apparent). Nausea is a sure sign that you are being victimized. It will feel like Eddie Haskell has just beamed himself into your living room and now occupies your child. "Mom, I just want you to enjoy that nice hot bath. Don't worry about a thing. After I clean my room I am going to eat all of my green beans. I really like vegetables. Thanks for making them for me. I love you. After my green beans can I have some ice cream, before I brush my teeth?"

A favorite example, from my friend Cate: Daughter: "Mom, can I-" Cate: "No. Now finish up." Daughter: "Uh, Mom! I wasn't going to ask you if I could stop eating my broccoli. I was ONLY going to ask you if I could have some soy sauce on it!! Gah!"

* Negotiation: "how many more bites do I have to eat? What if I don't? If I only eat six more bites of spinach can I still have a fig newton? What if I drink a V8 instead of eating my spinach? What if I don't eat any spinach but I drink TWO V8s tomorrow?"

* A pioneering-like self-confidence and delusional sense of invincibility: Though there are numerous examples, a few come instantly to mind. "I already knew that, mom. I know how to do that! I CAN DO IT MYSELF. You don't have to show me. Lifting a car is easy. I can run faster than that."

* Relentless, unyielding debate: As in:

Mr. M: But why do we have to go home now, mom? We can stay in this beach house for as long we want.

Me: Uh, no, we can't. There are new people coming next week and the owner will throw us out.

M: Well, we can just refuse to leave when the new people come.

Me: Yeah, we could try that, but then the owner will call the police and we'll be charged with criminal trespass.

M: So what?

Me: The police will show up at the door and take us both to jail. That's what.

M: Okay. If the police show up we can just lock the door and if they try to break it down, I'll just put my Incredibles shoulder up to the door and stop them.

Me: Uh, Mr. M, those guys have tear gas. And then it's all over, my little four-leaf clover.

M: Well then . . . well then, I'd just kill 'em.

Me: But if you killed the police, you'd be convicted of capital murder. And when you were sent away to prison for life I'd be sad. Plus you'd miss our trip to the beach next year. And anyway, how would we live without food and stuff?

M: But we wouldn't run out of food because I'd just rob a grocery store. And if the grocery store man tried to catch me, I'd run super-fast and jump over all the buildings and throw a car on him. And . . . and they couldn't convict me for life imprisonment, mom, because I'd just escape. And then I'd make myself so small they could never find me . . .

There's no winning against these little lawyers, you see.

In fact the only thing a kid comes without is subtlety. It is slowly acquired, and even then, comes only after years of practice. Back when they were little, guileless and confessional, you knew where you stood. Mr. M would stagger over to me, breathless in his diapers, look me right in the eye, and say, "Hi. I wasn't trying to unlock the front door and go outside. And I didn't break the eggs on the kitchen floor."

He's a bit more sophisticated these days, but only just a little. Reminds me of our dinner at another couple's house a few weeks ago. After the children had finished eating and were upstairs playing, it was time for the grown-ups to have dinner. After four sips of wine and three bites of soup, Mr. M appeared at my side in cherubic form. "Hi, mom -- just wanted to let you know you don't need to come check on us. So . . . . are you going to come check on us?" A few minutes later, he was back at the table again. "Hi. We are all fine upstairs. We're watching a movie and behaving, so don't come check on us."

Nodding, I let this neon, glaring give-away go seemingly over my head. I let enough time pass to set him up neat, then bolted up the stairs silently in my stockinged feet. This vignette needs no ending for parents, of course. We have to take them by surprise; they leave us no choice.

It's My Body and I'll Do What I Want To.

Once upon a time, I suspected Mr. M had a hernia. I Nancy-Drewed his symptoms on the internet and "inguinal hernia" came screaming back. But I was not going to let a testicle die on my watch. So I made an appointment with the pediatrician post haste and Mr. M and I roared down Central Expressway at 80 m.p.h. Though I was dreading this encounter, since it would involve a groin examination -- and Mr. M had just moved into a ridiculously modest phase -- the hernia exam proved to be anticlimactic. It lasted long enough for the doctor to confirm that Mr. M was indeed . . . male . . . and throw us out of his office.

It quickly became apparent that Mr. M's modesty knew no bounds; he was completely beyond reason. He refused to take off his pants, much less be poked or probed. Finally the female resident was banished from the room and the doctor got a 30-second peek. Meanwhile, M had turned into a flailing, screaming insane person and people in the lobby were beginning to suspect torture. The doc wanted us out of there, out of there fast. "Oh yeah, Mom. Looks like a hernia, alright. He'll need surgery with general anesthesia, 3-4 days of recovery, no big deal," he declared, scrawled down the names of a few pediatric surgeons he recommended, and then vanished.

Whoa. Hold on a minute. What looks like a hernia, doc? You barely glimpsed a penis. I was so mad at Mr, M when we got back in the car, absolutely livid. "That was ridiculous!" I bellowed. DO YOU WANT TO GET TOTALLY UNNECESSARY SURGERY OR . . . OR END UP WITH A PENIS THAT DOESN'T WORK WHEN YOU'RE A GROWN UP???"

After a few deep breaths, before I scarred him and subsidized a therapist for life, I calmed down. In a low, authoritative voice I said, "Listen, M, we are going to go to a pediatric hernia surgeon and you WILL allow him to thoroughly examine you." What would happen if he refused, he wanted to know. "Umm, well, . . . well," I floundered around for a while, until it came to me. I leaned in and whispered, for dramatic effect, "well, . . . you might not even be able to tinkle." But clearly unmoved by this, the prospect of a penis out-of-order, he crossed his arms and smugly declared, "It's my body, Mom, not yours." Except now I'm driving an SUV on an eight-lane freeway at a furious speed and he is so sure he's won this round.

There's no need to detail the hapless surgeon's experience with us. Suffice it to say, Mr. M performed hernia surgery on a stuffed monkey (Minnerva the Medical Dummy, we named her) and two intestinal transplants on me, with time to spare, in the forty-five minutes it took for the doctor to finally find us in our tiny windowless room. The nurses kept shutting the door and I kept opening it. When the doc finally came in and tried to examine him, M began laughing maniacally. This continued throughout the entire exam. "It tickles!" he screamed between freakish spasms of laughter, once again a flailing, writhing weirdo. To say I was mortified just doesn't capture it. After Herculean efforts, which included the promise of two dum-dums and one sticker in the after-life, the doctor was able to determine that M had absolutely NO hernia. None whatsoever. I am 0 for 1.

This "it's my body and I'll do what I want to" attitude has become far too prevalent, with flare ups whenever baths or green beans are raised; both, Mr. M believes, merit considered debate. He is too full to eat any green beans, he'll say, or his stomach "only has room for a Godiva." Or he'll flatly refuse to take his bath: "Sorry. It's my body, not yours." Oh yeah? Wanna' bet? "Okay," I'll concede. "No bath? No problem. It's your body and it's my Godiva chocolate." Score: 1-1

One night, when denied both television and chocolate, he kept repeating, in a very loud voice, "FOR YOUR INFORMATION I AM REALLY REALLY HUNGRY!" But he quickly abandoned this effort; all it brought was my equally loud refrain: FOR YOUR INFORMATION THAT HAS BEEN DULY, DULY NOTED. I was in full grown-up mode, you see. "Duly noted?" he cried, stomping. "Duly noted?!? I don't even know what that means!" I shrugged, ate my chocolate. Score: 2-1

Umm, did I just admit to matching my wits and juris doctorate against a seven-year old boy and keeping score? Dear God.