Our demand frustrates our desire.
There is a certain series of memories that may serve as a kind of emblem for this aphorism. When I was fourteen, I babysat a boy, about seven, whose mother had published an ad in our parish bulletin. She specifically asked for a male babysitter, and I realized when she immediately hired me after one phone call, this was something in short supply. I would go on to babysit a fair bit. I remember the thrill and pride I had when I bought my first musical instrument, a melodica, with my own money. But it was this first job that remained the most difficult and puzzling, lasting about one year.
On days I was hired I would ride his bus home. That’s where I first met Justin, let’s call him. He had a dark, violet ring around his mouth, one that explained itself quickly: he compulsively licked his lips. The other notable thing about Justin, for a babysitter anyway, was that he was a terrible loser, but he always demanded that we play games. He would throw hour-long tantrums even when losing games of pure chance—rock, paper, scissors became far too high-stakes and all the crying, screaming, and coaxing made it simply not worth it. I had to play games where it was possible to for me to definitely lose. But Justin was no dupe: he would also melt down if he felt you were losing “on purpose.”
I did not have to read a lick of Freud to recognize as a middle schooler that Justin’s sore lips and sore losing were of a piece. His mother, on the way out the door to a date, evidenced by her eveningwear and bright red lipstick, would warn him sternly before sweetly turning to me with the night’s instructions and a giddy Have fun as she left the house. But this only showed the impotence of making a demand on him. I was to send him to his room if I saw him “doing it.” But this was absurd, I recognized. What’s to stop him from licking them even more there? This was just as ludicrous as Justin’s demand to win a game, even if it meant he needed to cheat, his normal strategy.
Another boy, Kenny, lived next door. His mother, even though she was at the home, would sometimes ask if her could join Justin and I playing outside in the yard. This was to me a great relief—Kenny was extremely amiable, down to play anything, and not only did it make Justin easier to handle, but I admired him: Kenny seemed to be totally indifferent to winning and losing in games, almost not to understand the concepts. His mother would always pay me for this, often more than what I was getting to actually watch Justin. “I know he’s difficult,” she would say, something that puzzled me. “He’s autistic, so he has trouble playing with other kids.” I found this confession strange, as Kenny seemed to have far less trouble than the one other kid he was playing with.
But playing with Kenny sometimes allowed for another option. He was open to silliness, to games that devolved into nonsense and pure movement. When Justin would allow himself this, perhaps enjoying a fantasy of victory that was not recognized, he was just as affable and fun as Kenny. I should not meet his demands and let him win, nor subvert them to “teach him a lesson.” I simply had to make winning meaningless, as meaningless as it was to Kenny. It was Kenny who taught me the lesson, the only person in our trio who seemed to learn anything.