I was the witness this week of the following scene:

Johnny, come on! It’s time to go!
Little Johnny runs the other way.
John—NEE!
Little Johnny plays on.
1….2….3….4… Now, I frequently wonder what the magic number is that moms count to, because they always change tactics before they get to THE number.
You don’t want TIME OUT now, do you, Johnny? John-NEE? John-NEEEEEEEEEEE!
Little Johnny carries on until Mama starts heading his way. Uh-oh. Time to make a break for it. Little Johnny splits as fast as he can, but his little three-year-old legs are shorter than Mama’s. Mama catches him. Sweet Johnny falls prostrate on the ground and begins a full-on tantrum. Mama looks around sheepishly to see who’s watching and mumbles an embarrassed apology to all the gawkers. Johnny is carried off to the car kicking and screaming.

Score: Johnny=3; Mama=zippo.

I thought about this scene as my seven-month-old, Rebekah, was playing on the floor last night. There were 14 baby toys around her, but she scooted toward my husband’s laptop and reached for his wireless card. My husband, being the wise patriarch that he is, removed her sweet little fat hand and said, “No.” Now, before you flood my email box with hate mail, you should know that Rebekah stopped, pulled her hand back, and smiled. Training begins early in our house, and Rebekah’s time had come.

After the initial reach-and-grab, she paused, looked at her hand from all angles, and reached again. My husband, still wise and patriarchal, removed her hand and said, “No.” We stared at her in wonder, seeing that her brain was processing all of this. Rebekah again reached out for a third time, but this time, she put her hand under, over, and next to the wireless card, but not on. She looked at me. She looked at Dad. Then, she pulled her sweet little fat hand back onto her lap…and smiled.