1. THE MRS. PIGGLE-WIGGLE CURE

For those of you who didn't have the extensive library of bizarre childrens' literature I had, some background on Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle:

Betty McDonald and Hilary Knight blah blah old woman who lived alone in a houseful of things thrilling to children - tea sets and old pistols and such. Her husband (if I remember correctly) was killed by pirates in the south seas, and she had no children of her own, so she sort of adopted all the kids in town who came over to look at her stuff, get fed cookies, etc. etc. I adored the books, though the fact that every little story had a little moral meant they were distinctly second-tier literature (the first tier being populated by the likes of Pippi Longstocking, whose exploits were blessedly lessonless, or at least had better lessons, like "school is unnecessary, especially if you can lift your horse over your head"). Each chapter presented some new good but troubled child (we're back on Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle now - don't get lost) - Patsy, who wouldn't wash, Hubert, who wouldn't clean his room, Allen, who only ate tiny amounts of food, etc. The chapter began with the child's troubled mother, at her wit's end, ringing up Mrs. P-W and asking for help, and ended with the child clean/tidy/eating/behaving as "normal." Moralistic anemic claptrap! Oh no, not at all....

The middle of the chapter - the middle of the chapter was what held me in spellbound astonishment every time. First, there was the profound obstinacy of every child - being an obedient sort myself, I was always awestruck at the ability of these children to defy their parents. She refused to wash! They couldn't make her! Oh my.... And then there was Mrs. P-W's method - almost the exact same every time, but so completely different from my parents' that I was riveted nonetheless. She simply let the kids do exactly what they wanted, and trusted that they would eventually see the "error" of their ways. But in such fantastically sensibly demented ways....

Patsy refused to wash. After the first week or so, on the advice of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, her parents crept into her room late at night and rolled their sleeping daughter in radish seeds. After a few more weeks of dirt accumulation and a little rain - full-grown radishes! I was fascinated (and convinced that the shock of discovering self as human planter bed wouldn't have led me to bathe, like Patsy, but never to wash again...).

Hubert refused to clean his room. After a few weeks, it was in such a state that he could no longer get to his bed, nor to the door, and he slept atop a pile of toy parts. His mother made him meals which he hoisted up in a basket from his window. After things had gotten as bad as they possibly could, up came a note from Mrs. P-W with lunch - "the circus is coming to town, and we're going to go see it! Come play with us!" Toots of horns and happy shouts and a parade of kids (led by Mrs. P-W of course) came trotting past outside the house - oh, but Hubert couldn't even get to the door! Galvanized, he put away his toys in a furious hurry, got out of his room and caught up with his friends. I didn't buy it for a minute - for one, it always took me at least a day to clean my room, and for two, any real kid would've just shoved everything under the bed - but I respected Mrs. P-W's methods.

The most fascinating (and questionable) story that I remember concerned Allen, the Slow Eater - Tiny Bite Taker. Mrs. P-W furnished his despairing mother with a set of dishes - a series of individual place settings, each one smaller than the last. By the time they reached the last, doll-size set of dishes, Allen was ghost-pale, very weak, and eating less than a tablespoon of food a day. He finally came around, of course, but not before I - none too speedy an eater myself, especially at age eight - got a little spooked and resolved never to let my own parents read the book, lest they get ideas.

I realized today that I'm implementing the Piggle-Wiggle plan without even intending to. I don't stress about what I "should" be doing, I do what I want - I don't want to clean my room, so I don't. I only ever feel like eating some variant on bread and cheese - tonight pizza, tomorrow spaghetti.... I didn't feel like working, so I quit my job. And now I'm anemic and broke and I almost kill myself daily by tripping over some possession on my floor. I need discipline! I need rules! I need a circus parade! It's only a matter of time before I clean up my act, I can feel it....

(Postscript: this was the first fixation I wrote, and after I finished it, I went on a health kick and embraced my vegetables, rearranged my room to maximize space and discourage my messy tendencies, and got a job and made piles of money. Really. Then I quit the job and the veggies and threw my stuff all over again. Really.)