David’s been working on his persuasive powers for a while. Most mornings he makes sure I wear underwear, shirt, pants, shorts, and shoes (does he think I’m so loopy that he has to make sure I’m dressed before I go out into the world?). I rescue fire trucks from near-drowning in baby potties while trying to pull my shorts up as a certain little girl pulls them down to dig for coins in my pockets. David’s voice rises over the gentle chaos. “Mommy bra! Put on braaaa! Where’s Mommy pants? Mommy pants? Pants? Mommy needs pants! Mommy pants, put on paaaaaaaants,” he pleads. If I don’t get dressed fast enough, he gradually sinks to the floor in agony or pushes his face onto my thigh, his fists clenched. When he is sure we are all properly dressed (lifting Carmen’s shorts or skirt to make sure she’s wearing a diaper is sometimes in order) he relaxes, his job done, the world right, and we go on our way.I noticed recently, though, his approach is changing. Instead of pleading, or Carmen’s new direct questioning (“Time to go Jerilyn house?”), he’s more and more seeking to create mutual agreement. “Oh-tay?” he asks, then nods his head without bothering to wait for a response.  “Oh-tay,” he says, as if he was agreeing with me over a point which, we have to now assume, is a point that agrees with him.  “Oh-tay.”

It’s hard to say no, so it must be effective.