ARGUE BY NUMBERS

Can’t imagine why I ever took English in university.  I don’t use more than ten phrases now:

“Stop that.”

“Not now.”

“No.”

“Say please.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Ask your father.”

“Pick that up.”

“Drink your milk.”

“Don’t hit your sister.”

and

“Who forgot to flush?”

In particularly lucid moments, I have been known to utter:  “This place is a loony bin,” and “That’s it – I’m joining a convent.”

Janet is visiting with her toddler who is learning to talk.  I am critical.

“You’re making a big mistake, Janet.”

She looks worried.  “He only puts two words together, and he’s nearly eighteen months.  You think I should take him to a speech therapist?”

“Heck no.  I mean encouraging him to talk.”

Let’s face it.  We spend the first twelve months coaxing our kids to talk, and the next twenty years telling them to shut up.

“But I want him to read,” she explains.  “They say early talkers are early readers.”

“I used to read once, “ I say dreamily.  “Once I read Milton.  Now I read Munsch.  And cereal boxes with free prizes.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

“Do yourself a favor, Janet.  Wait until he’s eighteen.  What do you want him to talk for?  Once he talks, he’ll argue!”

I know all about it.  I have two daughters.  We spend every morning reworking arguments.  Practicing for perfection.  This is our quality time.

All my arguments with Natalie seem to conform to a predestined format.  Thinking there might be a way to circumvent such tiresome repetition, I have devised a shortcut.  Argue by Numbers.

Conversation should go something like this:

“Why can’t I No. 37?”

“Because Nos. 3, 5, and 17.”

She answers with a classic 34.  “Everybody else’s mother lets them…”

I counter with No. 51.  “Go ask your father.”

He abstains with a gutless 22.

I get angry.  “That’s it – I’m joining a convent.”

“Too late by about twenty years,” he smirks.