January 30, 2004, 9:17 a.m.
The Human Equivalent of Nintendo

“Put... the banana...down."

Phoebe peers curiously at me through the glass. She bites into the banana.

"Okay, never mind," I say loudly, my breath coming in visible puffs. "Sweetheart, can you bring a chair over to the door?"

She beams at me, and begins dragging a kitchen chair one-handedly towards where I am.

Ten minutes ago, I was conscientiously trundling bags of newspapers and glass bottles out to the sidewalk for recycling. Nine minutes ago, I was rattling a front door that had uncharacteristically locked itself behind me. Eight minutes ago, my nose and extremities began to freeze. On possibly the coldest day in Washington, ever, I am trapped outside, while inside the house there is a banana-wielding two-year old wearing a tutu. There's also a pot of beef simmering on the gas stove. I do not know which will be the more combustible, if I don't get in soon.

"Good girl!"

Phoebe is right in front of me, and climbs up on to the chair.

"Right, darling, see that little metal knob?" I stab my finger towards the place. Phoebe puts her palm on the glass. "No, no, no — -" Deep breath. "That knob!" I yell encouragingly, "Turn that one! The silver metal one! Right there!"

A little furrow appears on Phoebe's brow. She retreats slightly and takes another bite of the banana.

"Sweetheart, just — never mind!" I decide, and start making big, happy reassuring gestures. Mummy is going to the front door! Can you come down to the front door! Yes? Okay!"

Please O please, I think, and dash down the steps, around the side of the house, and press my cold nose against another pane of glass. Inside, I can see warm coats, and a pair of shoes, and the silent carpeted stairs. The phone begins to ring, distantly. A small pair of feet appears at the top of the stairs, and descends one careful step at a time. Ring, ring. Phoebe trots to the door.

"Phone, Mummy!" I wonder what she thinks I'm doing out here.

"I know, sweetheart," I shout soothingly. "Say, Phoebe, can you let Mummy in? Can you open the door?" Even as I say it I realize the impossibility. Not only did our doorbell fatally fry itself months ago, but also lately the knob mechanism has been sticking. Strong men have to struggle violently to get out of the house.

"Darling, try to open the door. Just try. Okay?"

A small hand reaches out, and with ridiculously simple "click," the front door opens. Evidently it, like Excalibur, prefers the gentle touch.

I gather Phoebe's warmth thankfully in my frozen arms and get to the phone just in time.

"Hello?"

Down the line comes an excited voice, reminding me briefly of Alvin and the Chipmunks. It is another mother, all high-pitched with annoyance and frustration. This is the third such conversation I've had this week.

"So low — brow — " says my interlocutor, "She's now enlisting children — only confident ones need apply, apparently — to be in a fashion show. I was at a rehearsal. She was telling seven-year-olds to 'Give me more attitude!'"

"She" is the Capable Mother, an impressive figure at our children's school who arrived last year and immediately set about massing an army of followers. In addition to trouncing other women in the giving of coffee mornings (ahem), the Capable Mother started an afterschool song-and-dance group that has the subversive feel of a cult. She distributes junk-food snacks and plays music that other parents abominate. She puts elementary-school girls in sexy stockings, and urges her charges to gasp with Bob-Fosse-esque satisfaction when they've completed a move. I am told that thong underwear plays a small role in an upcoming production.

Naturally, the children adore it: To be on stage, with a microphone, prancing around to thumping music? Bliss. As for their parents, some are positive enthusiasts. Many families, such as ours, do not participate. But I have had my lapels grabbed by a remarkable number of women who are deeply uneasy about the Capable Mother's influence, yet feel powerless to get their children out of there. Their hearts warn them it's a bad scene, but their with-it sensibilities say, aw, what's the harm?

"My daughter cried all the way to school this morning," the mother continues, "She says she loves the song-and-dance group, and that I'm punishing her if I take her out — "

"Can I have another banana, Mummy?"

"Oh, how awkward — yes, of course."

Wrapped together, still on the phone, Phoebe and I head to the kitchen. The air upstairs is warm and beefy.

"Listen," I say firmly, opening my invisible vial of spine-straightener. Having bottled the genie of erotic jazz dance in our previous school, I am utterly unafraid of seeming ungroovy when it comes to putting children in fishnets. The Capable Mother is what happens when good people do nothing. She is the human equivalent of Nintendo.

"Tell your daughter the main reason mothers exist is to protect children. Tell her you wouldn't be doing your job if you paid for her to spend two hours a week under the influence of someone who makes such Dubious Moral Judgments."

"Dubious morals — ?" the other mother falters, "I mean, I don't like the club, but I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call — "

"Well, of course," I concede, spooling back a bit from my scary Day of Reckoning tone, "Then you could say, oh, it's not a nice atmosphere, or "How vulgar!" — we both laugh — "Or it's not 'appropriate.'"

"Dubious moral judgments," the mother says wonderingly, her spine audibly straighter. "You know, I might try that. It does sound persuasive."

"That'll be ten dollars."

She laughs. "Thanks. I'll let you know."

We hang up. My sous-chef climbs up on the kitchen counter, and I lift the lid off the fragrant beef. It's one of those absurdly simple Italian concoctions that is meant to yield a succulent, melting, gorgeous hunk of mouth-feel after a lengthy bout of slow cooking. I check my watch: Only five minutes to go, better give it one last stir —

" — clonk," goes the wooden spoon. I prod the meat, and look incredulously at my watch. After two hours burbling quietly on the stove, my magnificent, enormous portion of "marbled" beef has turned...to stone.

— Meghan Cox Gurdon is an NRO columnist. Gurdon lives in Washington, D.C. and writes as much as her young family will permit. Her NRO column, "The Fever Swamp" appears weekly.

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