Discipline and Celebrity Dolphins

In mid-December of last year, when the agony of getting the kids into three layers of clothing every morning reached peak intensity, I had an epiphany.

My usual approach to get everyone out the door on time--loud, accusatory sighs, shouting, arm-waving, and then a final, angry lecture--wasn't working so well. 

"Be more strict," my husband offered as he flew down the stairs, past the mayhem and out the door on his way to work. It was his way of helping.

As for the kids, they seemed mildly entertained. They would get progressively goofier and sillier as my own frustration increased, like rebellious baboons banding together under threat of a screaming chimp.

By the time we all traipsed into school late, the kids actually thought it was all quite fun. They found camaraderie with other late kids. My youngest, not yet in kindergarten, demanded the school secretary give him a late slip, too, so he could be like his big sisters. 

Clearly, I needed a new approach. I flipped through my mental catalog of Supernanny episodes, and decided a reward system would work better.

The kids had recently seen the movie A Dolphin Tale. It tells the true story of a dolphin named Winter who, as a wee dolphin calf, got caught in a crab trap in the Gulf of Mexico, then washed ashore near Clearwater, Florida. 

Beached, and with a gravely wounded, infected tail, the dolphin seemed doomed. Winter was rescued, but her infected tail had to go. The dolphin vet at Clearwater had to amputate.

Of course, a dolphin sort of needs a tail. A good, strong tail, one might say, is a dolphin's raison d'etre. Without one, a dolphin won't be able to swim, hunt for food, or attract a mate. So the staff at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium made her a prosthetic tail.

The movie was a big hit. Love triumphs over Darwinism.

It just so happens that the Clearwater Aquarium is about two hours' drive from the place we stay when we go to Florida for March break, which we were doing this year.

I told the kids that we could go see the dolphin if we all got to school on time, most days of the week, until March break.

I still did my fair share of arm waving and shouting, but now I added “And don't you want to see Winter?” to the mix. 

It worked. When I reminded the kids of their favorite celebrity dolphin, they tried harder, and most days we made it on time.

So, when we finally got to Florida several months later, we were on the hook. 

“We're not really taking them to see an amputee dolphin,” said my husband. "Are we?" 

The look of resignation in his eyes told me he knew he wouldn't win this one.

“We made a deal,” I said. “What do you suggest we do?”

He called our eldest daughter, who is nearly 8, and was the ringleader of the campaign to see Winter. She scampered into his lap, pretending to be an eager puppy sitting up on hind legs. She made her eyes big and bright with anticipation.

“Fifty bucks,” said my husband. “I'll give you fifty bucks to not go see Winter. You guys can all go get a new toy.”

“No way,” said our daughter flatly.

“A hundred.”

“Nope.”

“Name your price,” he said.

“A gazillion dollars,” she said, and stuck her thumb in her mouth, glowering at him. End of conversation.

“OK, what about Busch Gardens,” said my husband. “We could go there. They have roller coasters and a zoo.”

She stopped sucking her thumb. “A zoo?”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “But let's check the price on that.”

It was five times the price of admission to the Clearwater aquarium—not quite a gazillion dollars, but close. He gave up.

“We're going to see Winter,” he said, shoulders slumped.

We read Google reviews to see what we should expect. 

“Long lines,” wrote one person. “And the tanks are filthy.”

“We traveled from New York to see Winter,” wrote one enthusiastic fan. “Our son has autism. Winter is an inspiration to us all!”

"Oh no," my husband groaned.

“Nothing to see,” wrote another. “Hardly any animals. You might get a glimpse of Winter if you're lucky.”

“It's perfect,” I said. “We'll be in and out in an hour.”

Upon our arrival at the aquarium, we took our place in line with tourists from all over North America and Europe to see this inspirational dolphin. While waiting to buy our tickets, we noticed a sign out front.

“Clearwater Marine Aquarium,” it read. “Rescue. Rehabilitate. Release.”

“Release?” my husband scoffed. “There's no way that money-churner is being released.”

It was a little too loud. The family of normal, sensitive people behind us--their daughter in a leg brace-- looked offended.

It was all kind of depressing--for the dolphins more than for us. I'm no expert, but I've seen dolphins in the wild. They don't do a lot of tricks, usually.

There were some happy moments at Clearwater. Watching our youngest cover his eyes when he saw an eel in a tank was pretty funny. Watching Winter strain to do her show-the-tail-stump-to-the-crowds trick was not.

By far the biggest bonus, we thought, was that our eldest daughter was now obsessed with dolphins. One of nature's quieter animals, one would think, being underwater and all.

Our daughter's fascination with all predators means we have been subjected to, on a daily basis, gutteral roars, hawk screeches, and her interpretation of a velociraptor squawk.

So an obsession with a relatively quiet, underwater creature obsession was a welcome relief. Until we heard the incredibly shrill call that dolphins actually make.

Bad enough on its own, but when she saw the trainer imitating the dolphin's shriek, we knew we were done for.

All the way home in the car: shrill dolphin screech-cries from the eldest interspersed with her four-year-old brother's cry of “Shaaaadaaap!!” When I glanced in back at them, our long-suffering middle child had her hands covering her ears.

My husband drove on, hunched, jaw tense, eyes bulging, bracing himself against the onslaught of noise. He looked like someone had scooped his soul out of his body.

"Good idea," he said, managing a smile.