The Art of the "Please"

“Turn on the TV! I want to listen to Kpop ON THE TV!” my four-year-old yells.

The harder she throws her arms toward the blank screen the louder her voice becomes, spirally her from a broad-smiled cherub into an irrational tyrant.

“T, that’s not how you ask for anything. Try again.”

“Please?!” she stares at me, face red.

“No. Too late. You’re four-and-a-half you cannot talk to people that way.”

I turn back to the bananas I’ve been cutting for her sister.

“Mommy?” F inquires sweetly, looking back at T who has sulked off to the corner.

“Hm?”

“Please? Can you please turn on the TV?”

“Thank you for asking so nicely but not right now. T needs to learn.”

“Ok,” she nods in agreement taking a swig from her sippy-cup.

Ten minutes later T is seated at the kitchen table, asking for cereal.

“Please?” she inquires tentatively.

Moments later the warble of her voice reverberates through the kitchen as she tries to stop some stray milk from dribbling down her chin.

“Napkin! I need a NAPKIN!” she screams.

I look at her with an expression I reserve for the rudest co-shoppers at Walmart who leave their carts in the middle of aisle, or maybe the car that cuts me off on the freeway only to slow down immediately.

“Please?” she says meekly.

Dabbing her chin, I then leave the unnaturally white paper product by her bowl where she quietly crunches on the increasingly soggy cereal.

Look, I can speculate about all the reasons my four-year-old daughter (she has cerebral palsy) who walks a little funny, talks a little funny, and can’t seem to color in the lines or draw anything resembling something that exists, is extra demanding.

She gets bullied at school by a girl named K.

She gets told routinely she’s no longer someone’s friend.

She gets pushed down to the floor.

“Mommy,” she tells me at least twice a week when I pick her up from daycare. “So-and-so was mean to me. He said he wasn't my friend and pushed me and I fell and it hurt my feelings!”

“It has nothing to do with you,” I say, wondering if I’ll be punished by telling a half-truth. “Some people are just mean.”

She nods. “Ok Mommy.”

T looks out the window and then meets my eyes in the rear view mirror.

“I miss F. Are we going to pick her up?”

“Yes, your sister loves you very much,” I say, as if that makes up for anything cruel she experiences in this world.

“I want to go home. Can we go home?”

“That’s where we’re headed after we get your sister!” I chirp.

“Mommy? Can we please get a snack for F? I want to share with her.”

Please. She said it. She said it because she wants something for someone she loves. And when that word escapes her lips, it’s like a plea that guarantees outcomes. It’s magic.