The Sandwich of Love

 

One spring day, I found my 3-year-old daughter, Channie, standing in front of my favorite rose bush. She laughed, spread her chubby legs apart, reached up and pulled off one of the blossoms. A shower of bright pink petals spilled from her fingers onto her sneakers. She stood on her toes and braced herself for another wild grab at a higher rose. My first instinct was to scream, “Stop that!” Instead, I put down the tomato plants I was carrying and approached her quietly.

In that corner of the yard were two living things I’ve cared for. One was my rose bush; one was my daughter. Her growth—her moral development, was my responsibility. Here was my chance to model self-restraint. If I expressed anger by yelling, hitting, or throwing objects, I knew that negative emotion would come back to haunt me.

Instead, I squatted next to her and asked in a quiet voice, “What are you doing?”

She said, “I’m counting. See.” She continued plucking pink petals, saying, “Daddy loves me. He loves me not.” Then she squealed, “Daddy loves me!” She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a big kiss. Then she saw the box of tomato plants on the lawn. “Can I help dig holes?”

Trying times

Later, we were in an Italian restaurant with friends. Channie became very demanding and had a tantrum while I was eating. I looked at her and said, “If you don’t stop yelling, you’re leaving.”

She continued, and I lost my appetite for lasagna. I picked her up. She kicked her legs and flailed her arms as we left the restaurant.

I took her to the car and placed her in the back seat and said, “You are a wonderful daughter, but I don’t like how you just acted. We do not scream and misbehave. Now sit there for the next three minutes and think about it.”

I read a magazine. Through the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of her crying. When three minutes were up, I invited her to the front seat to sit on my lap.

That’s when I fed Channie the “sandwich of love.”

Building the “sandwich”. 

The bottom piece of the sandwich was a compliment. “I admired how hard you worked helping plant the tomatoes earlier.” I paid her a genuine compliment regarding something she did successfully.

The middle of the sandwich was a question. “Why did we need to leave the restaurant?” The meat was hers, and I waited for an answer. She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes downcast.

I asked, “Was Channie behaving like a big girl in the restaurant?”

She shook her head.

Satisfied that she understood the reason for leaving our dinners, I added the top slice of the sandwich—a loving hug.

I said, “You know I love you very much.”

She said, “I wuv you, too.”

Then I said, “Now we’ll go back into that restaurant, and you’ll show me how well you can behave.” We gave each other another big hug.

After that, I never had problems with her in restaurants. My dinner went cold, and my appetite was ruined, but the sandwich of love made it all worthwhile.