Sorrows

Sorrows make us stronger, they say,
though it's hard to see how
when tears blur the way.

The Golden Rule of Parenting

Most children want their parents' approval; few strive to anger mom and dad. So, when your young child does something that makes you mad, understand that it isn't on purpose. Treat your children the way you would want to be treated if you were small, young, trusting and ignorant. Turn it into a teaching moment.

You, my darling, may remember how we handled these issues.

In general, you got a free pass the first time you did anything I didn't want you to do. We'd discuss it and explore why it wasn't a good thing to do, then determine the consequences if you did it again. Then we'd drop it until it came up later.

Remember your bike ride? Cross-country, along and across the railroad tracks? You got a soda from a fast food store off of a not-so-close local 6-lane highway, and when you came home slurrping on the drink, I asked where you got it. Since I never went ballistic when you were honest with me, you explained. (You almost always shared, although not so much when you got older, but that's to be expected.)

I asked you if you had a good time, then told you why it was dangerous and what I'd do if you ever did it again. (For the record, you did it again and did indeed lose bike-riding privileges for a month. It's one of the few times that we ever had to actually institute consequences!)

It's easy to talk about the reasons for disallowing something, but a discussion is so much more engaging than a lecture. To discuss an issue with a child, gently ask leading questions: Do you know it's trespassing to be on the railroad tracks? Why would the railroads not allow someone on the tracks, do you think? What sort of people use the railroad tracks to get around? Why? Do you see where that could be dangerous for a young girl your age? That sort of thing.

Consequences are a little tricky. You have to remember that you-as-a-parent get to live with them, too. It was certainly no skin off my nose to deny you bike-riding privileges for a month, but I was stuck with a whining you when your friends took off on bike rides. If I grounded you, I was grounded too. If I removed car-riding or driving privileges, guess who would be responsible for driving you to your "must do" appointments. Consequences should remind the child why not do a thing. Consequences must be realistic for both parties. Consequences must be served up as promised.

Some activities must be stopped before they ever happen.

For example, playing with fire.

You were three when I caught you intently watching your daddy light his cigarette. Your gaze lingered on the disposable lighter when he put it on the table. Ah, I thought, the child is interested in the fire-making tool. Not unusual, but possibly quite dangerous.

I took you on my lap, you and your tattered but beloved blanket, and picked up the lighter. "So you're interested in this," I said, and you nodded. I teased a thread from a frayed area in your blanket, and held it to the flame until it was crisp and black.

"This is fire," I said. "It is dangerous. It could burn up your whole blanket, your toys, your room, your house. You. Children burn down their homes a lot, playing with lighters like this and matches. It's why you always hear people say, 'don't play with fire.'" I put the piece of soot in your chubby little hand.

You were very impressed with the demonstration.

A few days later, there was a brief story in the newspaper about a family that had been burned out by their three-year-old playing with matches. I read it to you, and we said tsk tsk and dropped it, mentioning a few more incidents over the next few years, as they were reported.

You seemed to understand the concept. If you played with fire, I never knew it.

I treated you like I would have liked to be treated if I were an innocent three-year-old fascinated by a dangerous grownup tool.

Do you remember when you were very young...

... and you decided to fight bedtime?

You were five, and we were on our own. You had to go to preschool and I had to go to work every weekday. I told you that we didn't see each other enough to spend the last and first hours of the day fighting.

We made a deal.

I let you choose your bedtime and you promised you'd get up in the mornings and get dressed without giving me a hard time. I explained that I wasn't going to fight with you, but if you weren't ready when it was time to go I would carry you to the car directly from your bed and you'd go to school in your pajamas.

Of course, you stayed up very late that very night, and just couldn't get up the next morning. As promised, I carried you, your breakfast, and your shoes and socks to the car and drove you to school. On the way, you put on your shoes and socks and ate your breakfast. I stayed pleasant, but reminded you that you'd chosen to stay up until nearly midnight the night before, and suggested that was the reason you were so sleepy.

The teacher at the curb raised her eyebrows when she opened the door and saw that you were wearing your pajamas. Without comment, she helped you get out of your car seat and sent you up the sidewalk, into the schoolhouse. She stuck her head back into the car, long enough for me to explain our deal.

Thank heaven it was a Montessori school! The teacher understood that I was solving a problem by giving you the power for which you were fighting, accompanied by clear guidelines, and by making sure we both stuck with the deal. You wanted to set your own bedtime; I wanted peaceful evenings and mornings.

And, as always since the day you were born, I wanted to grow an adult who understood that her own actions have consequences.

That evening, when I picked you up from school, you were yawning and very tired. You told me that your day had been awful, that you couldn't learn anything because you had a hard time staying awake, that you couldn't go outside to play because you were in your pajamas, and that you'd been angry and cross all day. On the way home, we talked about sleep and how important it is to our bodies and minds.

You fell asleep at the table over dinner, and I carried you to your bed. I figured that, for this one night, sleep was more important than a bath and brushed teeth and hair.

Ever since, you have gotten yourself to bed and up in the morning and to school and work with admirable discipline. You did not have the sleepiness problems your peers had in high school, as by then you were quite comfortable with your personal sleep requirements. We talked about it.

You might remember this story when you have children of your own.