The carrot

One of my dad's favorite stories about me took place when I was about seven. We were hunting a new car and Mom and he had narrowed their choices down to two--a white, used car and a shiny, brown new car. As we drove home, he and Mom were discussing which they should get when he remembers he turned to me and said, "Which car do you want, Carolyn?" That's when I burst into tears. "I don't know which one I want!"

He laughs about it now, but he doesn't realize the rest of the story: I remember that day and I remember exactly why I burst into tears. My problem wasn't childish indecision. I knew which car I wanted; I also knew, even at seven years, that my answer wouldn't matter at all. They would get the car they wanted, regardless of what I said.

I don't remember having the decision carrot dangled in front of my face before, only to have it snatched away, but I know that it had to have happened. Why else would I feel the frustration of knowing that my say didn't matter--that their asking was just another form of "fun" to them, a chance to tell my grandparents later how silly I was to want the shiny brown car instead of the obviously better white, used car? I was supposed to know these things, after all--even in my seven years. Why did I try to make decisions in the first place? After all, they seemed to think, they weren't my decisions to make.

That incident took place roughly thirty-five years ago. Now I am an adult, as is my brother. And the only things that have changed are the fact that I have a brother with whom I can commiserate and that now I'm not even asked about important decisions--even in ridicule.

And that's all I have to say about that.