I've been thinking about the question a fellow shopper asked in a grocery store checkout line. While observing the behavior of a mother and her unruly young children, the shopper turned to me and asked, "Can't she control her children?"
Good question. Not one to be figured out in the express line.
On second and third thought, this is the question of all time. It first wriggled its way to the top in Genesis with Adam and Eve, seized a firm hold with Cain and Abel and continues to demand full attention through the long and unrelenting thread of history.
The one-word answer to the question, "Can parents control their children?" is no. They can't. A simple concept, until it gets tangled in the minds and hearts of parents whose hopes and dreams are invested in outcomes that are "best" for their children. That is, after all, the rub.
While they are young, we control our children's environment and attempt to provide them with a foundation for temporal and spiritual safety, health, material needs, education and opportunities for development. But our children do not belong to us. They are not our property. We do not purchase them or "break" them as if they are horses to be used for purposes of our own.
It is true that as parents, we have the opportunity to influence, teach, bless, direct, guide and lead our children. As we go along, we can learn valuable skills that can help us be more effective in our task of passing the torch to a new generation. We provide examples for them. We love them. We cherish them. We have faith in them. We pray for them. However, in the final analysis, their thoughts, words and actions are their own, not ours.
Look around. Even God doesn't control His children even though unlike us, He does have the power to do so. Maybe that's why we're called human beings. We are the masters of our own thoughts, words and actions. We get to be what we choose to be and to experience the consequences of that being. It's part of the plan.
Can't She Control Her Children?
Not "THE END"
People who love to read never want their journey with words to end. For example, the weekly letter from my 92-year-old mother came on Wednesday, including a recipe for sauerkraut she copied from a book in the Dear America series she's reading. According to Mom, the recipe describes the way her parents made sauerkraut when she was a child in the early 1900s. I think she wants me to make some.
At times like this, I'm glad I paid attention to my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Stuart, who taught me about fractions and long division because the first item on the recipe is 150 heads of cabbage. It also calls for a huge barrel ("scrubbed, scalded and set in the sun to dry"), a board across two chairs and a sharp knife. Then—as if the instructions aren't exhilarating enough already—I'm supposed to enlist the help of " Stanley" after I have "helped him with his bath and spent extra time cleaning his feet, for it is the husband's job to tamp the cabbage." This could get complicated because in my "single" status, I don't even know anyone by the name of Stanley.
You're right if you guessed that my mother's love of reading has ignited many an adventure in both her life and the lives of her children. Who could forget snuggling on either side of her, waiting for The Teeny, Tiny Lady in the storybook to yell, "Take it!" when the hidden voice from her cupboard demanded that she, "Give me my bone?" Mother nearly scared us to death with the voice inflections she added to that story. We asked for it again and again!
Through my literacy journey from here to there and back again, Mom has been my pilot all the way. It's like this. The way we see it, nearly every flight of imagination begins on a runway of black and white, where you fire up your engine, get your bearings as you begin to pick up speed toward an adventure and finally, take to the skies.
By the way—if your name happens to be Stanley—I have a nice, clean potato masher all lined up to do your job, so you can come out of hiding.
Mothers Worry Best
In a race for the Triple Crown of Worry, mothers are first out of the gate and last to cross the finish line.
We worry about what our children CAN do. They can play football, skydive and climb mountains.
We worry about what our children CAN’T do. They can’t sleep through the night, sit still in church, swallow a pill or keep their shoes tied.
We worry about what they WILL do. They will take a Band-aid off as soon as they get outside, pick their noses and belch in public.
We worry about what they WON’T do. They won’t go to bed on time, pay attention or “go potty” in designated areas.
We worry about what they SHOULD do. They should eat their vegetables and use soap more often.
We worry about what they SHOULDN’T do. They shouldn’t smoke a first cigarette or cross the street before looking both ways.
We worry about what they MIGHT do. They might lose their retainer or crash into the bushes when learning to ride a bike.
We worry about what they might NOT do. They might not put on clean underwear or pass their spelling test.
We worry about what they DO. They run when they should walk and walk when they should run. They eat too fast and do dishes too slow.
We worry about what they DON’T do. They don’t do their homework, clean their rooms or floss.
Mothers worry best because they never run out of subject matter. So don’t be surprised to hear a great-grandmother calling out to the grandfather of her great-grandchildren, “Son, where’s your coat? It’s 30 degrees out there!”
Where Seldom Is Heard a Discouraging Word
Most Americans can sing "Home on the Range." Dreams of "a home where the buffalo roam" are now far-fetched, but it’s still possible to have a home "where seldom is heard a discouraging word."
From the time a baby starts putting paper clips in her mouth, throwing Cheerios and reaching for electrical sockets, a parent responds with, "No, no!" A certain amount of knee-jerk answers are required to keep homes intact and children safe. However, constant negative responses can be discouraging and can actually do damage.
Several years ago, while shopping, I heard a mother continually berate her children. They seemed listless and beaten down by her approach. When I got home, I decided to listen to myself interact with our children. I discovered that, while I wasn’t using obvious negative labels, I WAS overdosing on the word "no" and the negative contractions "can’t, won’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t and don’t." I decided to change and found that it IS possible to turn any negative statement into a positive one.
Start like I did, by playing a personal mind game. Every time you hear yourself belittling a child, saying "no" or using one of the contraction words, try to think of a way you could have turned your negative words into positive ones.
For example, your six-year-old asks if he can go out to play. Instead of saying, "Not until your bed is made," say, "Yes, as soon as your bed is made." Your baby starts reaching for a tube of lipstick. Instead of grabbing his hand and saying "No, no" . . . move the lipstick and give the baby something else to play with. When your child runs toward his bike, say, "Stop! Remember to put your helmet on" instead of "Don’t get on that bike without a helmet!" It may be a subtle difference, but ask yourself, "Which directions would YOU rather receive?"
Establishing positive language habits takes devotion and a marathon mentality. For me, it continues to be a challenging task. However, it’s worth the effort to turn our "home on the range" into one "where seldom is heard a discouraging word."
Let the Games Begin
August . . . the hot . . . sticky . . . dog days of summer. Time for your kids to pick your brain like a seagull picks a beach at low tide, searching for answers to the question, "Mom . . . what can we do?" Here are a few ideas, ready for recycling:
- Blow bubbles
- Play ‘Dress Up’
- Catch bugs in a jar and then let them go
- Play ‘Tag,’ ‘Backyard Baseball’ or ‘Dodge Ball’
- Make a lemonade stand
- Collect pretty rocks
- Make paper chains
- Play ‘Garbage Can Basketball,’ ‘H-O-R-S-E,’ and ‘21’
- Find a four-leaf clover in the grass
- Play ‘Kick the Can’ or ‘Hide and Seek’
- Play jump rope or marbles
- Run through the sprinklers
- Play ‘Leap Frog’
- Draw pictures with sidewalk chalk and play ‘Hopscotch’
- Play ‘Follow the Leader’
- Paint the house with water
- Play ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’ or ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’
- Make mud pies
- Have a tea party
- Play ‘Mother May I’ or ‘Simon Says’
- Play ‘One Potato, Two Potato’
And, my personal favorite, load the kids into the car and make a
- Trip to the air-conditioned library.
Who Said What?
If you believe the quotation books, men say more important things than women. I’m not so sure. I figure that many of the quotations attributed to men came out of their mother’s mouths first.
For instance;
After changing her son’s messy diaper, Julius Caesar’s mother might have said, "I came . . . I saw . . . I conquered."
Perhaps Shakespeare’s mother used these words while calling her son for dinner, "Shakespeare, Shakespeare, wherefore art thou Shakespeare?"
The instructions of Henry David Thoreau’s mother on cleaning his room, "Our life is frittered away by detail . . . Simplify, simplify."
Dr. Seuss’s mother trying to convince the neighbor kid to go home, "Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go NOW!"
Robert Frost’s mother responding to her son as he presents himself on the front step after tromping through a mud puddle, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
Thomas A. Edison’s mother, while teaching her son to make lye soap, "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."
Charles Dickens’ mother, upon finding herself pregnant again, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
The Duke of Wellington’s mother after he coaxed her to reconsider her decision to send him to bed without dinner, "There is no mistake; there has been no mistake; and there shall be no mistake."
Winston Churchill’s mother, while reprimanding Winston for talking back to her, "This is the sort of English up with which I will not put."
Lewis Carroll’s mother explaining her reasons for no between-meal snacks, "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday—but never jam today."
And finally . . . Harry S. Truman’s mother responding to Harry’s request for an extra dollar in his allowance . . . "Sorry, son . . . the buck stops here."
Three Little Words
Mothers are the masters of brevity. They have to be because family members are not into lengthy communications. Actually, family members don’t relish most short ones, either. Over the years, a mother acquires a standard repertoire of three-little-word phrases. Here are a few:
Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Come and eat. Make your bed. Wash your face. Tie your shoes. Pick it up. Wipe it up. Find your shoes. Don’t spill it. Listen to me. Just a minute. Wipe your nose. Put it away. One more time. Answer the phone. Use the hamper. Flush the toilet. Don’t try it. Clean your room. Take it outside. That did it. Oh . . . I guess. Be more careful. Hang it up. Clean it up. Shut the door. Open the door. Who did it? Don’t lose it. Turn it down. Tell Mommy, "Potty." Get a haircut. Break it up. It’s for you. Is that yours? Empty the garbage. Wash your hands. Clear the table. Do the dishes. I can’t hear. I CAN’T HEAR! Yes, you can. I said no. Talk to me. Call your brothers. Turn it off. Not so fast. Stop that racket. Where’s the aspirin? Take it back. Leave her alone. Let Mommy sleep. Be more quiet. Wipe the counter. Bring it home. Change the channel. Stop teasing her. No more fighting. Do your homework. Don’t touch that. No more cookies. Are you kidding? Come straight home. No means no. Will you listen? Look it up. You did what? Go to bed. Say your prayers. What’s that noise? No more drinks. Get to sleep.
There’s a good reason why we keep at it day after day, month after month and year after year. Three little words . . . I love you.
Loving Parents Make the Difference
Some people wait for decades to get a lucky break in life. I got mine the day I was born into a family with a mom and dad who love God, each other, my siblings and me. I can paraphrase an Abraham Lincoln quote and say, "Every good thing I have or am or ever hope to be . . . can be traced to my parents."
My mom and dad still model meaningful, productive lives for their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and members of their community.
At age 90, my dad was recently restricted from mowing his lawn by his doctor. It may not be common knowledge, but there's only one "right" way to mow a lawn . . . Daddy's way. We're not talking about an ordinary lawn here. We're talking about the prettiest yard in American Falls.
It starts by pulling the ripcord on the lawn mower at dawn on Monday mornings, in spite of neighbors who may be trying to put the finishing touches on their weekend with the last few minutes of shut-eye. There's a certain criss-cross method of mowing a lawn that coaxes the grass to grow greener. The stray clippings have to be swept off the sidewalk, and the lawnmower has to be cleaned up before it goes back into the garage. It's a hard act for my brother-in-law to follow, but he's doing his best.
Daddy may not be able to mow the lawn this summer, but rest assured . . . the geraniums and roses and pansies and snapdragons will be flaunting their beauty as always under his daily care. The prettiest one will be picked and displayed for his sweetheart on the kitchen table in a Dixie cup.
In the meantime, Mother, at 87, keeps busy preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner . . . just as she's been doing for the past sixty-three years . . . baking cookies for "drop-ins," preserving fruits and vegetables, writing letters, and nurturing Daddy, whose lucky break came the day he married her.
Who can guess what a wonderful world this could be if every person in the world had parents like mine?
Happy Father's Day, Daddy! Be sure to take your medicine!
In the Middle of Rumpelstiltskin
I phoned my friend, Delma Atwell. She said she would get back to me. She was "right in the middle of Rumpelstiltskin" with her boys, Tim and Ted, and couldn’t be interrupted.
I admit. I was jealous. Her words transported me to the hours my children nestled on either side of me, eagerly anticipating every word of a favorite story. But, alas and alack . . . all my "Tims and Teds" have been independent readers for years and have no use for the lullaby of bedtime stories.
Our collection of worn-and-torn childhood favorites rests behind closed doors in the hall closet, waiting for the grandchildren to visit. Among them are books my children loved most; Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now, The Poky Little Puppy, Ferdinand the Bull, The Cat in the Hat and many more.
I recall the feeling of safety and wonder as my mother sat between my siblings and me and read The Teeny Tiny Lady, Little Brown Koko, The Three Little Pigs and on and on.
Did I read to my children enough? That depends. How much is enough? I tried to read to them every day, but I didn’t always succeed. All of them are good readers, if that’s the point. But fostering a love for reading is hardly the sole objective of storytime. Perhaps it isn’t possible to read to a child "enough."
I’d like to go back and hear the rhythm of my mother’s voice as she read the familiar "once upon a times" and "happily ever afters." I’d like to go back and hear my children correct me when I skipped a word or two of a favorite book.
All I know is this. You can talk to friends or finish the laundry or work on your list of things to do any day because you can always come back to friends and laundry and lists. They wait. But children don’t stay children. They grow up and go away.
I wish I had never been "too busy" for Rumpelstiltskin.
Same Mom and Dad ... Different Parents
January is a month to ponder beginnings and endings. Our oldest and youngest children, Dan and Janette, were born in January. They have five brothers and one sister sandwiched in between. They have the same mom and dad, but were raised by different parents. This is how it went:
When Dan was eight months old, we were concerned. He wasn't crawling yet. In an effort to motivate his development, we worked with him every day, lining up paths of marshmallows on the carpet for him to retrieve. When Janette was eight months old, one of her brothers announced, "Look, mom and dad, Janette can crawl!" We were amazed. How could she be crawling so soon?
Dan took naps as a preschooler. He and I climbed onto his bed with his favorite stack of books, and I read until he fell asleep. It usually took about five books. Then, I got up and went back to my important work. Janette took naps, also. She and I climbed onto my bed with one book, and she read until I fell asleep. It usually took a couple of pages. Afterwards, she got up and went back to her important work.
Before Dan went to school each morning, he had to make his bed and tidy his room. If he didn't, I called the school and had the principal send him home to do it. Janette makes her bed and tidies her room on Saturday . . . if she wants to go out with her friends, that is.
At age fifteen, Dan got his driver's license. We were thrilled. He could finally perform many of the carpool duties and errands. At age fifteen, Janette wanted to get her driver's license. We held her off as long as we possibly could, and questioned legislators who pass laws allowing such youthful drivers.
Here's what it comes down to in the semi-final analysis. Parenting techniques come and go like busy ants at a picnic. What matters most is the unwavering love that's behind them.