学进去

My 7-year-old daughter Leeny always has her nose in a book. She even took to reading in the car on the long drive to summer camp, which was where she lost the book. This is the first lost library book in my life. My family has always been over-educated, but we were poor. I didn’t own books. I borrowed books. However, my daughters have more books now than I owned my whole childhood, and I knowingly contribute to it by adding to the stacks (堆). So it’s probably my fault that when Leeny realized she had lost the book, she shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t find it,” she said. “It’s only $20, right? What’s the big deal?”

I felt the need to make her feel responsible for the book. She agreed to help me clean the chicken coop (笼子) in trade for my paying the library fine. I thought this idea was very clever because cleaning the coop is some work I had been avoiding for months. It was summertime and dust floated in the air. But my girl, my animal-loving mini-me, thought shoveling chicken poop (铲鸡粪) was the most fun she’d had on a Saturday morning in a long time. She didn’t feel any of the emotions that punishment is supposed to introduce. In fact, she looked as if she might lose another on purpose in order to clean the coop again. I stood, somewhat dumbfounded (目瞪口呆的), watching her.

It took me a while to realize what had happened, why my punishment had failed so completely and why I didn’t care. The fact is that I had Leeny help me clean the chicken coop. I was there, too, shoveling chicken poop, fetching the clean straw and feed. Leen’s little sister, Vicki, was inside watching a cartoon while my husband paid bills. Only Leeny and I were outside. She had me all to herself for the first time since Vicki was born, and she was enjoying all the attention for once. I don’t know what she learned about responsibility, but I found that I didn’t care about the book any more. We bonded over that unpleasant job and spent quality time together: mother, daughter, and chicken poop.