It’s never a happy day when your child jacks her first ride.

We had just finished supper and the preacher was warming up his vocal cords when Emily started warming up her vocal chords, too. I had to flee with my little 18-month-old to the nursery, where I ran into another daddy who just happened to have a vocal toddler named Emily, too.

The other daddy’s Emily was a sweet child. Kept by her mother, the alter-Emily had never been exposed to the dog-eat-dog world of daycare, where it’s every toddler for herself. Her world is apparently a serene one, where gentle people guide her through a day of love.

But over in the day-care jungle, where my child roams, things are a little bit tougher. You use your binky or a kid steals your binky.

“Is that your ball? Not any more, sucker.”

“I’m sorry. Were you using that sippy cup? Was that your food?”

It’s a rough world when you’re under the age of two. No one is real; there’s no empathy. Daddy is just the thing that picks you up when you cry. Mama’s just the thing that feeds you.

And other kids? They’re like shelves. They’re holding your stuff until you want it, even if you never saw it before and weren’t aware it was yours in the first place.

Your toddler is a sociopath.

Because “good Emily” doesn’t spend all day with nasty little beasts trying to steal before they have their stuff stolen, she doesn’t greedily seize every object before her. She assumes that when she has something, it will remain hers. She assumes when she leaves something in one place, it will remain there.

So what happens when good Emily and tough Emily get together in a room full of toys?

“Hey, that’s a nice slide you’re on, chump,” my little baby says in a 1930s movie-tough accent. “Why don’t you give someone else a turn?”

And she shoves nice Emily out of the way.

So nice Emily goes over to the hobby horse. And my little Emily pushes her off, saying “Thanks for the ride.” Well, if she could speak a complete sentence she would.

I’m happy nice Emily can’t dial 9-1-1, otherwise I’d be in a world of hurt. I don’t know any bail bondsmen.

I just want to know how to keep my kid from growing up rough.

“The book” says she will develop empathy sooner or later, but how? I learned to share by being stuck in the house on rainy days with three greedy sisters with sharp fingernails and teeth.

“That’s mine!!!” one shrieks.

“Yeah, OK.”

n T&D City Editor Gene Crider can be reached by e-mail at gcrider@timesanddemocrat.com or by phone at 803-533-5570. Discuss this and other stories online at TheTandD.com.

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