My five-year-old is extravagantly furious at being thwarted. I have infringed her human rights by mildly suggesting that she turn off the television and put some clothes on. I can see the dark storm clouds gathering on her thunderous brow, her eyes narrowing, mouth pursed in Shakespearean displeasure as she reaches for the most hurtful, serpent’s tooth ingratitude she can think of. “You’re Not My Friend Any More!”
To which I reply, swift as Lady Macbeth’s dagger, “I never was your friend in the first place, darling. Friends don’t wash your socks or buy you a warm winter coat or make you brush your teeth so they don’t rot in your head.
“Now, please get dressed or I will call the school and they will send the police round to arrest all your Sylvanians and deport them.”
Tough love, maybe. But love none the less. And, without wishing to seem smug (it’s merely a happy by‑product), mine is an old-fashioned, British brand of child‑rearing that could soon be coming back in vogue in Scandinavia, of all places.
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