The Parent can do no right.

There is nothing the parent can do right.  You would think that now and then he might, if only by mere accident, blunder into sense.  But, no, there seems to be a law against it.  He brings home woolly rabbits and indiarubber elephants, and expects the Child to be contented “forsooth” with suchlike aids to its education.  As a matter of fact, the Child is content: it bangs its own head with the woolly rabbit and does itself no harm; it tries to swallow the indiarubber elephant; it does not succeed, but continues to hope.  With that woolly rabbit and that indiarubber elephant it would be as happy as the day is long if only the young gentleman from Cambridge would leave it alone, and not put new ideas into its head.  But the gentleman from Cambridge and the maiden lady Understander are convinced that the future of the race depends upon leaving the Child untrammelled to select its own amusements.  A friend of mine, during his wife’s absence once on a visit to her mother, tried the experiment.

The Child selected a frying-pan.  How it got the frying-pan remains to this day a mystery.  The cook said “frying-pans don’t walk upstairs.”  The nurse said she should be sorry to call anyone a liar, but that there was commonsense in everything.  The scullery-maid said that if everybody did their own work other people would not be driven beyond the limits of human endurance; and the housekeeper said that she was sick and tired of life.  My friend said it did not matter.  The Child clung to the frying-pan with passion.  The book my friend was reading said that was how the human mind was formed: the Child’s instinct prompted it to seize upon objects tending to develop its brain faculty.  What the parent had got to do was to stand aside and watch events.

The Child proceeded to black everything about the nursery with the bottom of the frying-pan.  It then set to work to lick the frying-pan clean.  The nurse, a woman of narrow ideas, had a presentiment that later on it would be ill.  My friend explained to her the error the world had hitherto committed: it had imagined that the parent knew a thing or two that the Child didn’t.  In future the Children were to do their bringing up themselves.  In the house of the future the parents would be allotted the attics where they would be out of the way.  They might occasionally be allowed down to dinner, say, on Sundays.

The Child, having exhausted all the nourishment the frying-pan contained, sought to develop its brain faculty by thumping itself over the head with the flat of the thing.  With the selfishness of the average parent—thinking chiefly of what the Coroner might say, and indifferent to the future of humanity, my friend insisted upon changing the game.