It sounds
like a nasty thing to say, but my eldest daughter used to be a bully. One day, her
two female teachers had a ‘ten minute meeting’ with us and they hesitantly
tried to tell us that our daughter had some awkward manners. They apparently
didn’t realise we weren’t shocked at all. Actually, we were almost a little
relieved that our daughter did not behave completely differently in school than
at home.
The
teachers suggested a special training programme for her. In Dutch, it is called
the ‘kanjertraining’ (Google Translate gave me ‘whopper training’, but that
can’t be right). In England it is known as the Tiger Training. In ten sessions,
children – both bullies and bullied – and their parents, are trained in social
skills and in emotional patterns. The method consists of the so called caps,
which represent how children are likely to react in certain situations. The red
cap is from the monkey, that always makes a joke out of things. The yellow cap
stands for the rabbit, that is really shy and withdrawn. On the black cap there
is a picture of the ‘bully bird’, that reacts unkindly and aggressively in all
situations. The white cap is the Tiger Cap, which represents the behaviour of a
‘normal’ self-confident person.
Children
learn to experiment with these types of behaviour by putting the caps on. They
experience how their reactions can influence other kids' behaviour. The parents
are obligated to join their children and they learn a lot as well. To be quite
honest, in the beginning I was very sceptical. After ten lessons, the results
amazed me. Anyhow, this story is not meant to be an advertorial for Tiger
Training. My story starts when we were asked to prepare the last session.
In the previous
session, every child was asked to write down a compliment and a tip (euphemism
for criticism) for every other child in the class. Those compliments and tips
were gathered in an envelope with the name of the particular child on it. Subsequently, the envelope was given to
another kid with the following assignment: create something for this person and
use all those compliments and tips in it. You can paint, mould, craft or glue
something, whatever you want. The only condition was that the child could
reread his little notes over and over again.
My daughter
got the envelope of Marianne, a really sweet, way too heavy, ever bullied girl.
During our trip home, we exchanged ideas on an original craftwork for Marianne.
And then, like I was struck by lightning, I had the best idea ever. I got so
enthusiastic about it – and I had to admit that I liked the idea that my
daughter would bring the most original and ‘never done before’ creative work to
the next class – that I wasn’t open to any other idea of my daughter herself.
‘We are
going to bake fortune cookies,’ I stated.
‘What are
fortune cookies? ‘
‘Cookies
with a little note inside to wish you luck or whatever. We can bake them
ourselves, and put the notes with compliments and tips in it.’
‘That is a
great idea mama!’ my daughter yelled. ‘And I’m sure she likes cookies, she is a
little too fat, isn’t she?’
I ignored
that point, because of this excellent idea. When we got home, I immediately
googled the recipe for fortune cookies. It seemed childishly easy to me. A
little bit of flour, egg white, corn starch and sugar would do the trick.
I had the
presence of mind to ask my daughter to type all the little notes in Word, just
to be sure. In the meantime, I prepared the batter. Half an hour later the
first cookies went into the oven and we sat cosily in the kitchen for twenty
minutes. After the prescribed time, I took out the plate, scraped off one
cookie and tried to fold it. That was, after all, the whole point. It bended a
little, and then broke. Okay… that was not what I had in mind. I tried another
one, but this one was already cold and did not bend a single millimetre. Damn.
Now what?
While we
ate the failed fortune cookies, which were actually completely tasteless, I
surfed on the internet to find out what I had done wrong. And this time, I read
a little further than what was in front of my nose. If a recipe allowed
comments, those were like: ‘The cookies break all the time, what can I do?’
Before I knew, I was completely sucked in the world of fortune cookies: tips
and tricks to avoid breaking, instruction videos on YouTube, small changes in
the recipes to make the batter more rubbery and do not forget the folding
techniques accompanied by an oven schedule. The trick appeared to be to keep
the cookies warm – but not too warm - until the moment you were going to bend
them.
The next
day, I had spoiled four batches. The dustbin was full of misfortune. I had gone
to the store three times for more eggs. Every family member had eaten enough
cookies for the rest of their lives. The compliments and tips on Marianne had
been printed out four times. My daughter saw the fatal date coming closer and
she tried to change my mind. But I couldn’t let go of the idea she could steal
the show.
However,
batch five was a bit more promising. I was able to fold the note in the cookie.
But when I tried to bend it, it still broke. In batch number six I managed to
fold AND bend two cookies, after changing the recipe again and watching an
elaborate YouTube instruction.
My husband
tried to convince me to acknowledge that the project had failed and that I
should start to think of another way to surprise Marianne. ‘Just one more try,’
I cried, begged. I must have looked like a psycho cook. There was fortune
cookie batter in my hair, behind my ears and under my armpits. ‘Please, go to
sleep first. Tomorrow we will decide what to do.’ As he mentioned this, I
noticed he was in his dressing gown. It was three o’clock in the morning.
Four hours
later, after a restless night sleep, I called the office and took a few hours off.
It was the day before the last Tiger Training day. I made myself a strong cup
of coffee, rolled up my sleeves and prepared the last batch of batter. This
part I could do without thinking. And then, suddenly, it worked. I was able to fold
the papers into the cookies and bend them without breaking, using the edge of a
saucepan, one of the more advanced techniques. I did it! One hour later, 22
cookies, filled with compliments and tips, were gloriously waiting for an
applause. The instruction video specifically mentioned that you should let the
cookies dry for 24 hours. So I put the cookies on a griddle and placed it in
the utility room.
I took a
shower (heavily needed one), let the babysitter in and went off for work.
When I got
home, my whole family was gathered around the babysitter in the kitchen. They
all looked like they suffered from serious death fears. ‘What’s wrong?’ I
asked.
‘Well …’ I
immediately saw my husband struggling with the question ‘how am I ever going to
tell her this’.
The
babysitter: ‘I accidently let the door of the utility room open. The dog ate
all the cookies.’
I can’t
tell you what happened next. I burst out in rage. I might have threatened to
kill the dog and apparently and they had foreseen my reaction and they had
already put him away, thank goodness.
It took me
a few hours, three Valium pills and a G&T to calm down. Then I dried my
tears, sighed, pulled myself together, went to the kitchen and prepared the
batter for the last time. It was an excellent texture for folding and bending.
At eleven o’clock at night I finished the last fortune cookie, with an almost
professional touch. Before I could finally go to bed, I had to walk the dog
first. I put aside all my hate towards this fortune ruining animal and went
outside.
It was full
moon and quite light outside. When he sat down for his poop, I saw a little
piece of blue paper coming out of his butt. Would it be a compliment of a tip?
It was a step too far to get the paper out of the turd to read it. Then I
remembered one of the tips (because I tried to fold it over eight times into a
cookie). And suddenly I knew for sure. This had to be the one that said: ‘You
could be less serious and laugh a little more.’
