10-10-10, as applied to a seven-year-old

Late last month we stopped at the library on our way to the beach. On impulse, I grabbed Suzy Welch’s book on decision-making, 10-10-10, and read it that afternoon while the kids swam. I admit that I didn’t study it too thoroughly. With how-to books, I often give them what I call the NPR treatment – I skim them and learn about the same amount that an hour-long interview with the author on “On Point,” “Talk of the Nation” or “Fresh Air,” to name three of my favorite NPR shows, would cover. I realize there’s more to it than what I gleaned, but two hours of skimming was enough for me to pick up the general idea of how 10-10-10 works as a decision-making tool.

And then just a couple of days later, I found the opportunity to put it into practice. 10-10-10 posits the utility of making decisions based on viewing them from three perspectives: how the outcome will play out in ten minutes, in ten months, and in ten years. It can be applied to countless situations: at work, in the household, with friends, when making big decisions about career changes, housing or other lifestyle issues.

But it also works pretty well with parenting. What happened on that particular day was that Holly and I were driving home from somewhere and she started chattering away about the birthday party she was going to throw for a particular stuffed animal when she got home. At the age of seven, Holly still has a remarkably multi-layered imaginary life, so it didn’t surprise me that she went through the whole scheme: which other stuffed animals would be invited, what the food and activities at the party would consist of, what kind of gifts the birthday girl (or birthday pig or whatever it was) was going to receive.

But when she named the guest of honor, it was a new one to me. She wasn’t talking about any of her half-dozen usual favorites. And when I asked her who “Buttercup” was, she said “You know, that one I got for Christmas a long time ago.” I didn’t know, but didn’t think it was a problem, until I asked her if Buttercup was in the big basket of stuffed animals in her room. “No,” she said nonchalantly, “I think she’s in the box in the attic.”

Oh, that box in the attic. The one I brought to the swap shed at the transfer station last month.

When we got home, Holly hurried upstairs to start setting up the party. I made a silent wish that I might be wrong about Buttercup’s locale, but it wasn’t long before I realized I’d have no such luck. “Mommy, I can’t find that box anywhere!” Holly wailed. I followed her voice to the attic. As I’d assumed, she was standing at the exact spot that – unbeknownst to the kids – I consider the “wait-and-see zone.” When they haven’t played with something for a while, I put it in that corner of the attic and then “wait-and-see” if they ask for it. If six months or so go by and they don’t, I truck it to the town’s swap shed. The space was cleared; I’d done a big transfer station run on a recent Saturday morning when they were both out of the house, taking advantage of their absence to fill the back of the truck with outgrown toys.

“Oh noooo!” Holly wailed. “How can I have Buttercup’s party if I can’t find Buttercup?”

I considered my options. If I faked a search for Buttercup, she’d be pacified for a little while, and maybe I could somehow smooth things over or distract her while we were searching, but maybe the search would just be endlessly drawn out. If I told Holly the truth, I’d have to endure a raging meltdown, but at least the discussion would be over.

And then I remembered Suzy Welch and the 10-10-10 rule. If Holly found out I’d tossed Buttercup (who I’m quite certain I never saw her play with and never heard referred to as “Buttercup” or anything else), she’d still be furious in ten minutes. It was possible, though not too likely, that she’d still resent me for what I’d done in ten months. But it was nearly impossible to believe that she’d care about this in ten years. It wasn’t like I’d thrown out her beloved blanket or a favorite stuffed animal – just one that for some reason popped into her mind on this particular day for the first time in more than half a year.

On the other hand, if I faked a search, I’d still be at it in ten minutes and wouldn’t have gotten to any of the tasks I needed to try to get done. It was even remotely possible, were we not to resolve the situation, that she’d still be looking in ten months. And ten years? Same as the previous scenario: I couldn’t imagine she’d still remember it.

There was another alternative too, I then realized: the one I genuinely wanted to pursue. The path of complete evasion. “Holly, I have to get dinner started,” I said. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to help you.” Again, I was thinking 10-10-10. In ten minutes, she might still be storming over the disappearance of Buttercup, but I’d be halfway through the dinner preparations. Ten months? Probably would have blown over. Ten years? Not an issue.

So I did what might seem unethical but was definitely expedient: ducked out. Went downstairs to start making dinner, figuring I’d go check on her in 15 minutes or so. But not even ten minutes had gone by when Holly came clomping into the kitchen, cheerfully humming the happy birthday song. “So what happened?” I asked. “Oh, I decided it would be a different animal’s birthday instead,” she said pleasantly. “The guests are all lined up on my bed waiting for cake. Want to come see?”

So the party was in full swing, Buttercup having been replaced as guest of honor. I’d done what I needed to do, and Holly was happy. I still don’t know the process by which she worked the whole thing out in her mind, but it reminded me of one of her best qualities: resilience. And it made me determined to try to use this 10-10-10 thing again next time.