Conflict Resolution - A Practical Example

My then junior-high daughter, Jezebel, fell under the spell of a ninth grade hellion we’ll call “Emma.” Emma had dedicated herself to a precocious mastery of mascara, rock n’ roll, and, worst of all, boys, so naturally we sprang into action to rescue our perfect little angel from Emma’s ruinous clutches.

Now, Emma wasn’t the first bad influence we’d had to deal with, but the only tween-size plot left in the backyard was under my wife’s prized tomato plants, which we hated to spoil because they were coming along so beautifully. Plus, we suspected that if yet another one of Jez’s friends turned up missing it might attract unwanted attention, so we elected to try a different tack.

Instead of driving Emma off with threats and imprecations - and alienating Jez in the process - we embraced the succubus. We told Emma how delighted we were that such a smart and wise older girl was taking young Jez under her bat-like wing to help Jez navigate the shoals of early adolescence. “What a great idea, Emma.” “You are mature beyond your years, Emma.” “Such astute insights you have, Emma.” “What a wonderful counselor you would make, Emma.” Jez mimed sticking her fingers down her throat, thinking we wouldn’t notice, but notice we did, and inwardly grinned.

We invited Emma everywhere: the beach, amusement parks, restaurants – she especially loved restaurants, where we put her in charge of ordering appetizers for the table - concerts, movies, fairs. And whenever Emma came along, she rode shotgun with full control of the audio system, while my wife kept Jez company in the back, ostensibly amusing Jez with endless stanzas of The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round. Jez loudly pleaded for Death’s sweet release, but Death didn’t oblige, so the wheels on the bus kept going round and round…and round.

Our conversations with Emma waxed long and meaningful. We even took Emma to a risqué comedy club for her sixteenth birthday because “you’re mature enough to handle it,” while we left fourteen-year-old Jez, who wasn’t quite ready for grownup humor, we told her, to play Uno all night with an elderly neighbor and her quilting crew.

Jez howled in protest.

“We thought you loved Uno,” I said, feigning solicitousness. “Well, at least try to enjoy it.” Then a premeditated afterthought: “By the way, Jez, you may have to help some of the old biddies change their adult diapers. They all wear them, and, you know, ‘accidents’ happen, so try not to make a fuss about it.” Jez gagged. “Look at it this way,” I continued. “Someday, when we’re old and incontinent, you’re going to have to change Mom and me, so this is great practice.” Jez cringed and vowed that day would never come. Emma, listening from the car, valiantly tried, but didn’t quite manage, to stifle a smirk.

It took years, but mirabile dictu, Emma eventually grew into our expectations. Gone was the dumpster diva aesthetic, the perforated jeans and bustier tops; in were crisp button-down shirts, fitted blazers, and tailored slacks. A light touch for the makeup brush was acquired and used to apply colors actually found in Nature. A hairbrush was located and mastered. John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme found its way into the CD rotation.

Emma regularly had us over to dine on expertly prepared Osso Buco and Pig Trotters à la Pierre Koffmann, all served with an abundance of love and a dollop of gaiety. Meanwhile, alone in the kitchen – there wasn’t room at the dining table, you see, and besides, Jez claimed she couldn’t tolerate the sight or smell of…whatever Emma was serving that evening - Jez sullenly nibbled at her Happy Meal alternative.

I’ll never forget how proud I was when Emma won a full ride scholarship to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology on the strength of a science fair project I’d helped her design and build. Together we made a functioning model of the solar system, which sounds pretty mundane, I admit, but you should’ve seen it: magnetically levitated planets and their moons arced in realistic ellipses around a magnesium fueled sun - white hot, dazzling, and menacing as a Roman Candle; robotically timed asteroids silently hurtled by at random intervals then vanished behind a strategically camouflaged curtain; glittering stars coyly winked and watched from a distance. All this in a walk-in, soundproof, Vanta Black isolation chamber that chilled the viewer with reminders of space’s cold disdain for their hopes and ambitions. A visiting judge from the national committee, a former astronaut, emerged from it ashen faced and reeling from vertigo. Emma and I gave each other a knowing wink and high fived.

Sure, the space model cost thousands to make – we had no choice but to drain Jez’s college fund, so sorry, but we all need to sacrifice for the greater good, we told Jez – and it took endless hours of painstaking labor to construct, but the look on Emma’s face when she got her acceptance letters - MIT, Cal Tech, Sanford, Harvey Mudd, all bludgeoning each other with fistfuls of cash to court her favor – made it all worthwhile.

While Emma and I cordoned off the garage, and with it, access to Jez’s bicycle, at the kitchen table Jez and her mom fashioned a plaster of paris volcano that sputtered and foamed when filled with the right combination of vinegar and baking soda. Watercolors from the drug store rendered it a shade of turd brown – a nice touch, I guess. The judges acknowledged it with curt nods en passant to Emma’s exhibit, which seemed to exert a powerful gravitational hold on them.

Then, one day, Emma was gone.

“What happened,” we ask Jez.

“I dunno,” she shrugs. “Emma just doesn’t come around anymore. Which reminds me: can I borrow a shovel and about eight feet of plastic sheeting? I’ll bring back the shovel in the morning.”

I cast a worried side eye in her direction.

“Don’t worry,” Jez assures me. “Mom’s tomatoes will be fine.”

And we haven’t had a hint of trouble with Jez since, though I must admit, I do miss Emma.