The Great Diego Cooking School Debacle

Picture a little face. The face of a seven-year-old boy. He's looking up at you, and he's asking you, "What are we going to do today, Daddy?" He asks the question with a mixture of intrigue and misgiving. This morning, when Diego asked me the question, as he does on most non-school days, I heard my wife say from the bedroom, "No se lo diga." Spanish. Our code language, and probably the only way we'll get them to learn it, because if they think we're telling secrets on them, they're going to want to understand it.

Really healthy, I know.

"No se lo diga." Don't tell him. My wife's instincts were telling her that if this boy got an answer to his question ("We're going to Central Market for a cooking class.") he would raise all kinds of stink and make my morning a living hell. (I say "my" morning, because Jeanette was headed for the merciful sanctuary of work. I'm "off" for Spring Break this week, so I'm on Daddy Day-care duty.)

"We're going on an adventure!" That's our stock response when we don't want the kids to know where we're taking them. Of course, they've figured this out by now, so he immediately asks me to be more specific about said adventure.

"You'll see, buddy. You'll like it."

It's not until we're pulling into Central Market that I reveal the truth of what's happening. "I don't want to do cooking class! I hate cooking class!"

"You do not hate cooking class," I say, remaining calm, but with beads of sweat already forming. Don't let them smell your fear; it's like blood in the water to them.

"I'm not going!" he said, walking away from me in the parking lot.

"Diego, you get back here NOW. One....TWO..."

Then comes his meltdown. The tears well up and fall. Despite all my efforts at Love and Logic, I become Daddy Monster, the daddy I don't want to be. I issue threats, doing my best to make them reasonable. Jackson, the five year old, is -- and by the way, Jesus, thank you -- calm and not so concerned about cooking class. I think he's figured out that there will be cookies involved, and maybe a lot of them.

My threats are enough to get Diego into the classroom, where the instructors look at me with concerned expressions on their faces. Diego repays my threats of depriving him of his greatest love -- technology -- by refusing to participate in the class, for which we paid a nice little chunk of change, I might add. I watch them from outside the glass, Jackson happily cooking and eating and eating and goofing with the other boys and eating, while Diego sits by himself, coloring. He's not disruptive; he's got an almost eerie peace about him, and inside I'm churning.

I must, of course, enforce my punishment. He is not allowed any technology for the rest of the day. I spend way too much time wondering why the hell I let this stuff get me so angry, and why I can't be the in-control father that I fancy all the fathers around me to be.

But then something occurs to me. Diego is a smart, smart child. He made the choice to take control of his situation, even though he knew the cost would be something dear to him. It must be difficult having your days dictated by someone else all the time. As much as it annoyed me, at the end of the day I kind of have to applaud the kid for standing up for something.

I won't tell him that though, will I? Like fear, they smell empathy, and feed on it voraciously.