Wednesday – A Much Adored Curse
Jun. 11th, 2008 03:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the times my mother cursed me by saying, "One of these days, you're going to have a kid just like you, and you'll understand how frustrating it is!"
A powerful magic dwells within mothers, and their curses carry great weight in the universe. I realized that this weekend when my 3-year-old son did something that reminded me of myself. I don't have my mother's temper, though, and though all the experts say I should have scolded him, I had to try very hard not to laugh.
When your child acts up do not laugh at his or her actions, no matter how "cute" or "funny" it may seem, the childrearing books all say, A child will interpret your laughter as approval, and it will only reinforce unwanted behaviors.
It's easy to say this stuff when you are typing up a book telling other people how to raise perfect angels. It's not so easy when you are dealing with a flesh and blood toddler who has just pointed out that you are an idiot without saying a word.
Recently, my son has decided that he likes picnics, and this means every weekend for the past few weeks I have been forced to eat one or two lunches outdoors. At his insistance, I spread a blanket under the shady oak tree in our backyard, drag out a couple of throw pillows from the couch (I hate sitting on tree roots), and lay out a spread of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apple slices, and chunks of cheese for us to feast on. The boy thinks this is the best way people could eat. I am not very fond of picnics myself, but I am fond of how excited he gets when we have one.
Last Saturday while we were on our picnic, he decided that he couldn't enjoy his sandwich lounging on a throw pillow and announced that he wanted his Thomas the Tank Engine pillow, instead. After some negotiation, we agreed that I would be the one to go in the house and get it because the desired pillow was last seen in the bedroom his father and I share, and I didn't want him to wake up his shift-working father by looking for it himself.
Our drinks were in a basket I'd used to take the food outside in, because its bottom was more secure than the lumpy ground under the blanket. It occurred to me that, due to the way my son plays so rambunctiously, there was a good chance I would come back to a soggy blanket and a wicker basket holding two overturned plastic cups.
"Don't touch this basket while I'm inside," I told my little boy as I stood up.
A serious look came over his small face. He looked me in the eye, then reached out with one finger that he delicately and deliberately laid on the handle of the basket. Still looking me in the eye, his finger still on the wicker handle, he stood there, daring me to react.
I was trying so hard not to smile that my face almost hurt. I understood him perfectly: he was touching the basket, and we could both plainly see that nothing bad was happening because of it. I, too, have always want to know why a rule existed, and have a hard time following the ones that don't make sense to me.
I sighed. "Okay, see the drinks in there? I don't want them to fall over and get spilled. Please don't pick the basket up or hit it with one of your toys, because if the drinks spill we won't have anything to drink and the blanket will get all wet. Understand?"
Satisfied, he nodded and took his finger off of the basket. I went inside the house to fetch his pillow, and returned to a basket that had not been moved or messed with.
My parents were old school; if I had done this as a child, I probably would have gotten spanked, and certainly would have gotten yelled at. I still remember being a child, though, and I remember the lesson I picked up was not blind obedience, but not to get caught touching the basket. I would have waited until the adult went inside, and just like my son I would have taken one finger and touched the basket while they weren't looking. A stupid rule is a stupid rule.
There is a school of thought that says I am too indulgent of a parent, and perhaps it's right. Perhaps I have no business raising a child when I, myself, am able to relate to his behaviors on a personal level. To those people, I say this: just wait until you're out of the room, because I am going to touch everything in there and rearrange the objects on your knick-knack shelf and write "dust me" on the windowsill with my finger, just because I want to. So nnnnyyyyah!
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the times my mother cursed me by saying, "One of these days, you're going to have a kid just like you, and you'll understand how frustrating it is!"
A powerful magic dwells within mothers, and their curses carry great weight in the universe. I realized that this weekend when my 3-year-old son did something that reminded me of myself. I don't have my mother's temper, though, and though all the experts say I should have scolded him, I had to try very hard not to laugh.
When your child acts up do not laugh at his or her actions, no matter how "cute" or "funny" it may seem, the childrearing books all say, A child will interpret your laughter as approval, and it will only reinforce unwanted behaviors.
It's easy to say this stuff when you are typing up a book telling other people how to raise perfect angels. It's not so easy when you are dealing with a flesh and blood toddler who has just pointed out that you are an idiot without saying a word.
Recently, my son has decided that he likes picnics, and this means every weekend for the past few weeks I have been forced to eat one or two lunches outdoors. At his insistance, I spread a blanket under the shady oak tree in our backyard, drag out a couple of throw pillows from the couch (I hate sitting on tree roots), and lay out a spread of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apple slices, and chunks of cheese for us to feast on. The boy thinks this is the best way people could eat. I am not very fond of picnics myself, but I am fond of how excited he gets when we have one.
Last Saturday while we were on our picnic, he decided that he couldn't enjoy his sandwich lounging on a throw pillow and announced that he wanted his Thomas the Tank Engine pillow, instead. After some negotiation, we agreed that I would be the one to go in the house and get it because the desired pillow was last seen in the bedroom his father and I share, and I didn't want him to wake up his shift-working father by looking for it himself.
Our drinks were in a basket I'd used to take the food outside in, because its bottom was more secure than the lumpy ground under the blanket. It occurred to me that, due to the way my son plays so rambunctiously, there was a good chance I would come back to a soggy blanket and a wicker basket holding two overturned plastic cups.
"Don't touch this basket while I'm inside," I told my little boy as I stood up.
A serious look came over his small face. He looked me in the eye, then reached out with one finger that he delicately and deliberately laid on the handle of the basket. Still looking me in the eye, his finger still on the wicker handle, he stood there, daring me to react.
I was trying so hard not to smile that my face almost hurt. I understood him perfectly: he was touching the basket, and we could both plainly see that nothing bad was happening because of it. I, too, have always want to know why a rule existed, and have a hard time following the ones that don't make sense to me.
I sighed. "Okay, see the drinks in there? I don't want them to fall over and get spilled. Please don't pick the basket up or hit it with one of your toys, because if the drinks spill we won't have anything to drink and the blanket will get all wet. Understand?"
Satisfied, he nodded and took his finger off of the basket. I went inside the house to fetch his pillow, and returned to a basket that had not been moved or messed with.
My parents were old school; if I had done this as a child, I probably would have gotten spanked, and certainly would have gotten yelled at. I still remember being a child, though, and I remember the lesson I picked up was not blind obedience, but not to get caught touching the basket. I would have waited until the adult went inside, and just like my son I would have taken one finger and touched the basket while they weren't looking. A stupid rule is a stupid rule.
There is a school of thought that says I am too indulgent of a parent, and perhaps it's right. Perhaps I have no business raising a child when I, myself, am able to relate to his behaviors on a personal level. To those people, I say this: just wait until you're out of the room, because I am going to touch everything in there and rearrange the objects on your knick-knack shelf and write "dust me" on the windowsill with my finger, just because I want to. So nnnnyyyyah!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 09:18 pm (UTC)As the oldest of four, I was generally in trouble for either "encouraging" or "aggravating" the others.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 05:01 pm (UTC)too indulgent of a parent,
Date: 2008-06-11 09:34 pm (UTC)Re: too indulgent of a parent,
Date: 2008-06-12 04:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 11:30 pm (UTC)When I was a toddler, we lived in a three-family house with another family that had a daughter a few months younger than me. My mom was of the explaining school, and those parents were the type to simply grab their daughter, bellow "STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!" and smack her. My mom says the poor kid never changed her behavior, most likely because she never knew what she was doing wrong...all she knew was, she was doing her thing, and suddenly Daddy came thundering after her.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:54 pm (UTC)A child that is yelled at or hit too often (some would say at all is too much) tends to take it as par for the course and ignore it. Its not a very effective means of correction, in my opinion.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 01:22 pm (UTC)My mom also cursed me. And she got her wish. She wanted me to have a child just like me. And Jen's my carbon copy. Thanks mom. ;P
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:48 pm (UTC)His open defiance to make a point charmed my socks off, but I'm worried his future school teachers won't be so amused. :P
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 05:53 pm (UTC)Sometimes they save that open defiance for home. Jen does. She's an angel at school.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 06:09 pm (UTC)Your daughter acts like you, but she is not you. Just because she got a lot of your personality traits doesn't mean she's destined to have the same issues you've had. If she does, however, you will be able to give her wise counsel and compassion that someone who had never had depression would not be able to.
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 01:47 pm (UTC)The worst time are when you explain and they still don't get it...worse, they cry about it. :(
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 04:45 pm (UTC)Take, for example, the time I had to tell him, "I can't get your toy for you, because you threw it out the window onto the freeway. I'm sorry, baby, it's gone now."
The fact that he cried and said, "I want it! I want it!" the whole way home (or at least until he passed out from exhaustion) was a testament to his grief, not his failure to understand that the beloved toy was lost forever.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-13 12:41 pm (UTC)