As mothers for generations have, I often find myself watching our kids play, sleep, interact with each other and with their friends. I’m amazed at the things they conjure up in their imaginations. The games they invent. The jobs they undertake to pass the time.
No doubt I’m not alone. Kids are and have been for years undisputedly the greatest improvisers, workers, investigators, and performers in all of God’s creation. And these are only a few of their most admirable qualities. Qualities we grown ups should take a lesson from once in a while.
However, there are times when I’m enjoying the blissfulness that is a little boy’s childhood, that I have to wonder if maybe something went wrong. Did our genes somehow mutate in utero or did my undying loyalty to our longtime family Lab somehow seep into my children’s utter being? It’s a question I sometimes find myself wondering and one I can’t help asking: Am I raising kids or canines?
It might sound like a joke, but seriously, kids and dogs really do have a lot in common. After all, who hasn’t caught their child peeing in the floor at least once in their early, developmental years? If I’d have had half the insight then as I do now, I’d have had my house lined in puppy pads. It’s true.
But kids just do crazy things like that; at least ours did. They were improvising. Trying their best to solve a problem on their own.
Take for instance, a dog’s innate drive to dig. Is it really so different for a little boy? Since they were old enough to sit up on their own, our boys have loved being in the dirt. Whether they are driving cars and trucks or sliding into home, there’s just something about being one with the meat of the earth. And it doesn’t end there. We have more than one hole at our house that looks as if someone is searching for a new route to China. “I’m digging for gold,” my little guy will say. I’m not sure he’ll find any gold, but he sure is learning how to work.
Another kinship between boy and beast? If you leave the gate open, they will both get out. This I’ve learned the hard way. Kids are investigators, just like our pets. If there’s an unusual scent lingering about the yard, ole Bessie will grind her nose into the ground checking it out. And our kids are no different--minus the nose grinding, of course.
And don’t they all love to perform? I learned early on that neither kids nor dogs will actually perform their little tricks on command. I had a dog once that would fetch till his feet were bleeding…if I was the only person at home. And kids really aren’t that much different.
“Where’s your nose? Where’s your nose?” Parents ask these crazy questions in their nonsense voices and expect their babies to break out in true Fred Astaire-ian style with a song and a dance about the location and function of their little button nose. Most times, however, the kid will look back at the parent like they are mad-silly. Oh yeah, they’ll perform. But on their own time.
And they don’t really grow out of that. We can catch our kids doing all kinds of amazing things if they don’t happen to know we are watching. I’ve peered through my kitchen window too many times to count, in awe of a six year old playing “fetch”. He throws the ball. He hits the ball. He fetches the ball. And he does it again and again, until his tail is too tired to wag and his tongue is hanging out.
Finally, the most endearing quality of both kid and creature is their undying, unrelenting, lifelong loyalty. No matter how many times we rub their noses in one of their dirty messes; no matter how many times we cringe at the sight of a new hole; no matter how many times they escape through an open gate; our children remain steadfast.
They hug our necks when we are angry. They make us smile when we want to scream. They lick our wounds in ways only little children know how.
Am I raising kids or canines? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But one thing’s for sure, like any good pup, our kids are loyal to the end. Even after a good spanking.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Taking things for granted
One day, many months ago, I was walking behind my oldest child into a building. Seems an easy enough task, but apparently my one, fatal mistake was looking away for the split second that it took for the door to nail me right between the eyes. That’s the moment I realized that when one is raising kids, absolutely nothing should be taken for granted.
There are so many things our little wonders simply don’t pop into this world already knowing. That fact seems logical. But sometimes we parents just don’t have a clue as to the magnitude of information about which they really don’t know until it hits us square in the face. Literally.
For example, when our boys started making trips next door to visit Ms. Corbin, I would walk them over. As they got a little older, I would stand at the door and watch them go. The first time they made the trek on their own, I stood observing as my two boys calmly and quietly walked up to the front door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Now in some circles, this might be called breaking and entering. I’m thankful Ms. Corbin is on the “kid friendly” side of the law.
It’s a simple mistake, or so one might think. But these social faux pas just seemed to be piling up. It’s one thing not to know that when you are the first person through a door you hold it open for those behind you. But not knowing that you must knock, be recognized, and be asked to come into someone’s home is a little too obvious. But maybe it’s not, for a couple little boys.
Yes, some errors are small and easy to correct. It seems logical that if there is always a trash bag in the trash can, that there should always be a trash bag in the can. And that if for some reason there is not a trash bag in the can, one might want to wait to dump his palate of wet paint or the remains of his supper plate until there is a bag in the can! Alas, once again, I have taken these things for granted. Still, a relatively simple slip-up to amend.
But the day, not so long ago, that I could not find my four-year old for a good five minutes—which is actually a lifetime to a mother with a missing child—was a slightly bigger blunder that would require my immediate attention.
I was working in the house doing my busy, stay-at-home-mommy things. I left Brisco playing alone, checking on him every couple minutes or so as I walked by, putting up laundry, picking up toys. The last time I saw him, he had gone to the back yard to retrieve his favorite race car. I watched him as he went, digging through that sandy bucket he’d dragged out from inside the gazebo.
I made another trip to the back of the house with yet another pile of clean clothes to put away, and when I returned, he had moved from my sight. I looked out the door and hollered his name, but he didn’t answer.
Not yet worried, I figured he’d come back inside without my knowing, so I made a quick walk-through with a hand full of clean socks, checking for him as I went. When I didn’t see him, I decided to take a closer look.
It wasn’t until I had walked completely around the house yelling his name…followed by promises of dad’s belt if he was teasing me…that I really started to panic. Where had this kid gotten off to, and why did he think it was acceptable to go alone?
As the blood began to return to my brain and I was able to breath through the racing heartbeats I could hear pounding in my ears, I had a thought: maybe he’d gone next door for a visit.
And sure enough, there he sat. My four-year old boy, in the middle of the biggest, all-ladies card party in town. Scanning the room for snacks and anything else that happened to look interesting. I was drowning in a pool of exasperation and relief.
It was at that point I decided not to take the simple things for granted. Kids don’t come into the world knowing how to hold open doors or “Knock Before Entering”. They get sidetracked. They chase butterflies. And they want to know why their neighbor has so many cars parked in front of her house. But still, I had to take action.
That afternoon, my boy and I discussed Stranger Danger. We discussed the fact that cartoons are fake and dinosaurs are dead. We talked about the difference between what’s happening on TV and what’s happening in real life.
“So what about those workout people?” he asked. “The ones on your video. Are they all really still right there? They are still doing the same thing!” So many questions, so little time.
From the moment we mothers realize we are expecting, our lives change. For nine months, we make promises and swear oaths that we’ll guide and protect our new, little life if God will just get us through the labor pains. And once we lay eyes on those precious babes, we fall in love. Some of us just never realized what adventures our pride and joy might bring along with them. I guess kids aren’t the only ones to take things for granted.
But in the end, it’s all worth it. The snuggle time and the “Will you read to me’s?” The goodnight hugs and the “I love you’s”. All the joys that sprinkle our days make up for the chaos and confusion our children dole out.
Now if I could just figure out a way to teach them about privacy in the bathroom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
There are so many things our little wonders simply don’t pop into this world already knowing. That fact seems logical. But sometimes we parents just don’t have a clue as to the magnitude of information about which they really don’t know until it hits us square in the face. Literally.
For example, when our boys started making trips next door to visit Ms. Corbin, I would walk them over. As they got a little older, I would stand at the door and watch them go. The first time they made the trek on their own, I stood observing as my two boys calmly and quietly walked up to the front door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Now in some circles, this might be called breaking and entering. I’m thankful Ms. Corbin is on the “kid friendly” side of the law.
It’s a simple mistake, or so one might think. But these social faux pas just seemed to be piling up. It’s one thing not to know that when you are the first person through a door you hold it open for those behind you. But not knowing that you must knock, be recognized, and be asked to come into someone’s home is a little too obvious. But maybe it’s not, for a couple little boys.
Yes, some errors are small and easy to correct. It seems logical that if there is always a trash bag in the trash can, that there should always be a trash bag in the can. And that if for some reason there is not a trash bag in the can, one might want to wait to dump his palate of wet paint or the remains of his supper plate until there is a bag in the can! Alas, once again, I have taken these things for granted. Still, a relatively simple slip-up to amend.
But the day, not so long ago, that I could not find my four-year old for a good five minutes—which is actually a lifetime to a mother with a missing child—was a slightly bigger blunder that would require my immediate attention.
I was working in the house doing my busy, stay-at-home-mommy things. I left Brisco playing alone, checking on him every couple minutes or so as I walked by, putting up laundry, picking up toys. The last time I saw him, he had gone to the back yard to retrieve his favorite race car. I watched him as he went, digging through that sandy bucket he’d dragged out from inside the gazebo.
I made another trip to the back of the house with yet another pile of clean clothes to put away, and when I returned, he had moved from my sight. I looked out the door and hollered his name, but he didn’t answer.
Not yet worried, I figured he’d come back inside without my knowing, so I made a quick walk-through with a hand full of clean socks, checking for him as I went. When I didn’t see him, I decided to take a closer look.
It wasn’t until I had walked completely around the house yelling his name…followed by promises of dad’s belt if he was teasing me…that I really started to panic. Where had this kid gotten off to, and why did he think it was acceptable to go alone?
As the blood began to return to my brain and I was able to breath through the racing heartbeats I could hear pounding in my ears, I had a thought: maybe he’d gone next door for a visit.
And sure enough, there he sat. My four-year old boy, in the middle of the biggest, all-ladies card party in town. Scanning the room for snacks and anything else that happened to look interesting. I was drowning in a pool of exasperation and relief.
It was at that point I decided not to take the simple things for granted. Kids don’t come into the world knowing how to hold open doors or “Knock Before Entering”. They get sidetracked. They chase butterflies. And they want to know why their neighbor has so many cars parked in front of her house. But still, I had to take action.
That afternoon, my boy and I discussed Stranger Danger. We discussed the fact that cartoons are fake and dinosaurs are dead. We talked about the difference between what’s happening on TV and what’s happening in real life.
“So what about those workout people?” he asked. “The ones on your video. Are they all really still right there? They are still doing the same thing!” So many questions, so little time.
From the moment we mothers realize we are expecting, our lives change. For nine months, we make promises and swear oaths that we’ll guide and protect our new, little life if God will just get us through the labor pains. And once we lay eyes on those precious babes, we fall in love. Some of us just never realized what adventures our pride and joy might bring along with them. I guess kids aren’t the only ones to take things for granted.
But in the end, it’s all worth it. The snuggle time and the “Will you read to me’s?” The goodnight hugs and the “I love you’s”. All the joys that sprinkle our days make up for the chaos and confusion our children dole out.
Now if I could just figure out a way to teach them about privacy in the bathroom.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Wanna play the Redbud game?
I’m pretty worthless when it comes to teaching our boys about the natural world. I can pass on one absolute about nature: “You reap what you sow”. I know that it takes water and warmth to make something grow, and I can identify a Magnolia tree, a Rose bush and a Redbud. That’s about the extent of it.
So generally, when I have the opportunity to teach them something, no matter how small, about the amazing world in which we live, I do what I can…and leave the rest to Dad.
Of course, Dad’s not always with us on our road trips. And when you spend as much time riding in the car as we do, it’s quite helpful to find ways to keep their minds busy, lest the most deadly form of carsickness known to parents today should flare-up: the Stop Touching Me Syndrome. There’s just something about being buckled down and a foot-and-a-half away from one’s sibling, that causes a child’s hands and mind to short circuit. And then…pandemonium ensues.
A while back on one of our longer car rides this spring, about thirty seconds before my breaking point, I saw a small window of opportunity to save my kids from two, well-deserved beatings. I pointed out to the boys a blooming purple tree that was sitting to the side of the road, all alone on the landscape. “It is called a Redbud. It is the state tree of Oklahoma,” I informed them, terribly proud of this tiny bit of horticultural knowledge I had stored.
They seemed somewhat impressed, and after I convinced them that THE REDBUD they had seen was not THE one and only state tree in Oklahoma, that there were lots of them all over the place, it became a game--or rather a competition--to see who could find the most along the way.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?” one child would say as soon as we’d hit the highway.
In all of our travels that spring, we’d managed to learn just where those Redbuds were blooming along our route. One to the east just north of the 152 junction. One in the backyard of the house across the road. A whole row of them on the south side of town just as we were driving into Burns Flat.
It became more of a test of attention rather than a test of discovery. But that’s ok. I’m up for any game that can keep them busy, even sort of quiet, and requires absolutely zero physical contact. It seems I’d found my new, favorite traveling companion.
As if the Redbud game wasn’t gift enough, spending so much time in the car had evidently taught the boys to get creative on their own. Their second favorite game? “What is it?” And no, that’s not a question. That’s the game. It seemed a bit akin to the old standby, “Pick a hand” but with a different twist.
“Wanna play ‘What Is It?’” one child would ask. “OK. I go first,” was usually the second child’s response.
I suppose the rules were, that if an item could fit into your hand, it was fair game. All a person needed to do was close his fist around it and say, “OK. What is it?” And then would begin the barrage of answers from the guesser. Yeah, well, I didn’t say it was brain surgery.
Toward the end of the ball season, it seemed they had moved on to bigger and better games, like reading the fine print that is chiseled on any coin they could find. Of course one must realize that at the time, neither of the boys could read much beyond their names or the names of their favorite ball teams. So they just stuck to reading the numbers.
“This one was born in 1987.”
“This one was born in 1972.”
“This one was born in 1889.” Nope, son, better read that one again.
They each had a stack of coins in their door handle, and they played the game so much they had all but memorized the dates printed on every one. It soon became too easy. Boring. So again, they got creative.
“OK. This is a penny. When was it born?” And whoever happened to be in the car at the time got a free invitation to guess the date etched onto the head’s side of every coin--whether they wanted it or not.
It’s funny the kinds of things that will keep our kids busy. Who’d have thought an insignificant bit of trivia I’d remembered from a history class taken 24 years earlier could bring hours of cheap entertainment to our boys. But gratefully, it had. And I’ll take counting games, guessing games, and even nonsense games over chaos and mayhem any day.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
So generally, when I have the opportunity to teach them something, no matter how small, about the amazing world in which we live, I do what I can…and leave the rest to Dad.
Of course, Dad’s not always with us on our road trips. And when you spend as much time riding in the car as we do, it’s quite helpful to find ways to keep their minds busy, lest the most deadly form of carsickness known to parents today should flare-up: the Stop Touching Me Syndrome. There’s just something about being buckled down and a foot-and-a-half away from one’s sibling, that causes a child’s hands and mind to short circuit. And then…pandemonium ensues.
A while back on one of our longer car rides this spring, about thirty seconds before my breaking point, I saw a small window of opportunity to save my kids from two, well-deserved beatings. I pointed out to the boys a blooming purple tree that was sitting to the side of the road, all alone on the landscape. “It is called a Redbud. It is the state tree of Oklahoma,” I informed them, terribly proud of this tiny bit of horticultural knowledge I had stored.
They seemed somewhat impressed, and after I convinced them that THE REDBUD they had seen was not THE one and only state tree in Oklahoma, that there were lots of them all over the place, it became a game--or rather a competition--to see who could find the most along the way.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?” one child would say as soon as we’d hit the highway.
In all of our travels that spring, we’d managed to learn just where those Redbuds were blooming along our route. One to the east just north of the 152 junction. One in the backyard of the house across the road. A whole row of them on the south side of town just as we were driving into Burns Flat.
It became more of a test of attention rather than a test of discovery. But that’s ok. I’m up for any game that can keep them busy, even sort of quiet, and requires absolutely zero physical contact. It seems I’d found my new, favorite traveling companion.
As if the Redbud game wasn’t gift enough, spending so much time in the car had evidently taught the boys to get creative on their own. Their second favorite game? “What is it?” And no, that’s not a question. That’s the game. It seemed a bit akin to the old standby, “Pick a hand” but with a different twist.
“Wanna play ‘What Is It?’” one child would ask. “OK. I go first,” was usually the second child’s response.
I suppose the rules were, that if an item could fit into your hand, it was fair game. All a person needed to do was close his fist around it and say, “OK. What is it?” And then would begin the barrage of answers from the guesser. Yeah, well, I didn’t say it was brain surgery.
Toward the end of the ball season, it seemed they had moved on to bigger and better games, like reading the fine print that is chiseled on any coin they could find. Of course one must realize that at the time, neither of the boys could read much beyond their names or the names of their favorite ball teams. So they just stuck to reading the numbers.
“This one was born in 1987.”
“This one was born in 1972.”
“This one was born in 1889.” Nope, son, better read that one again.
They each had a stack of coins in their door handle, and they played the game so much they had all but memorized the dates printed on every one. It soon became too easy. Boring. So again, they got creative.
“OK. This is a penny. When was it born?” And whoever happened to be in the car at the time got a free invitation to guess the date etched onto the head’s side of every coin--whether they wanted it or not.
It’s funny the kinds of things that will keep our kids busy. Who’d have thought an insignificant bit of trivia I’d remembered from a history class taken 24 years earlier could bring hours of cheap entertainment to our boys. But gratefully, it had. And I’ll take counting games, guessing games, and even nonsense games over chaos and mayhem any day.
“Wanna play the Redbud game?”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It’s summertime
It’s finally summertime at the Smith house. Well, at least for most of us. The scorching temperatures have made it official, along with having Cooper at home all day. Now if we could just get dad to take a break and find a good swimming hole, we’d all be in sweet-summer heaven. Or at least that’s what one might think.
It seems, however, that our boys just might have other games in mind for the hot and sweaty dog-days of summer. But this mother is not playing.
I mostly count myself lucky to have two boys as close in age as ours are, aside from the first year of Brisco’s life when I thought about locking myself in a dark closet. Daily. After that, though, I felt exceedingly blessed that our boys loved each other so much and played together so well. At this point in the game, I’m beginning to think that my lucky streak has ended.
What is it about kids that makes them think it’s ok to treat their siblings like road kill? They would never think of yelling at their friends or punching them in the gut because they called them out on an imaginary game of in-house Nerf-ball. So why is it that brothers think it’s ok to do it to each other?
The question is as old as the ages, and the answer remains a mystery. I can certainly remember some scrappy moments between me and my sister, most of them taking the form of clawing fingernails and flying hairbrushes. Who knows the reason behind it; it just happens. And as a kid, I suppose I could handle it. But as the mom? Not so much.
Consequently, we began the first day of summer in grand style: with threats of the belt. “If you are planning to fuss with each other all summer, let’s just get this over with right now!” Of course I didn’t follow through. But when Dad got home and got the brunt of my misdirected wrath, he kindly finished the job the way I should have.
A spanking from Daddy usually holds them over for several weeks, a little more for the one…a little less for the other. But this time, the gravity of the situation seemed to blow right past them like the ever-increasing Oklahoma wind. Not more than a couple of days had passed and they were back at it again.
The kids may not have learned their lesson, but I had. I eagerly followed in father’s footsteps this time. And the next time. And the next. But something wasn’t working here. And I was going insane.
I sat stewing, yet refusing to let myself become one of those parents who counts down the days until school starts because they can’t stand to be around their kids. (Although, I’m starting to see where those folks might be coming from.) I decided it was time to regroup. Get creative. Be in charge. I am, after all, the mom.
The next day, upon the first cross word that I heard, I informed the boys that we would be taking a different approach to learning how to get along this summer. They looked at me like I was speaking Spanish.
I restate: “I will not listen to little boys fuss and argue all summer long. If you can’t play together and get along, I will give each of you a job to do. This will not be a fun job. You will not enjoy it. After the job has been completed, you may then decide to try and play together in a more loving and appropriate way. Any questions?”
One boy gave a teenage grunt that he is far to young to have yet mastered. The other was a little too intrigued. “What kind of job?” he asked.
Pondering a spur-of-the-moment response, I said, “Something really hard. And hot. And sweaty. Outside in the sun.”
I could see his mind working, thinking about whether I was kidding or not, so I made sure he understood. “I am not joking. This will be a punishment, and you will hate it. And I will like it, because you will be outside where I can not hear your cries.”
Satisfied with that answer, the moment passed. In fact several days passed where I had only to look upon them with a wicked, sideways glare to remind them about the impending wrath I was willing to hurl in their direction.
Could it be I have finally found the most effective tool in my summertime parenting kit? Threats of hard work, in the deadly summer heat…and me in the house enjoying it all? Life couldn’t get any better.
I’m happy to say I have yet to be forced into implementing the blood, sweat, and tears form of discipline. I am, however, not afraid to do so should the need arise. After all, learning to pick up a yard full of dog poop is a job that could teach them to have pride in their home. Maybe even build a little character.
So, if you should drive past our house this summer and see our boys picking up the thousands of Maple seed “helicopters” that have fallen to the ground, or should you witness them cutting the grass with a genuine pair of eight inch Fiskars, do me a favor. Honk and wave as you drive by in your air conditioned vehicle. Let ‘em know what they’re missing!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It seems, however, that our boys just might have other games in mind for the hot and sweaty dog-days of summer. But this mother is not playing.
I mostly count myself lucky to have two boys as close in age as ours are, aside from the first year of Brisco’s life when I thought about locking myself in a dark closet. Daily. After that, though, I felt exceedingly blessed that our boys loved each other so much and played together so well. At this point in the game, I’m beginning to think that my lucky streak has ended.
What is it about kids that makes them think it’s ok to treat their siblings like road kill? They would never think of yelling at their friends or punching them in the gut because they called them out on an imaginary game of in-house Nerf-ball. So why is it that brothers think it’s ok to do it to each other?
The question is as old as the ages, and the answer remains a mystery. I can certainly remember some scrappy moments between me and my sister, most of them taking the form of clawing fingernails and flying hairbrushes. Who knows the reason behind it; it just happens. And as a kid, I suppose I could handle it. But as the mom? Not so much.
Consequently, we began the first day of summer in grand style: with threats of the belt. “If you are planning to fuss with each other all summer, let’s just get this over with right now!” Of course I didn’t follow through. But when Dad got home and got the brunt of my misdirected wrath, he kindly finished the job the way I should have.
A spanking from Daddy usually holds them over for several weeks, a little more for the one…a little less for the other. But this time, the gravity of the situation seemed to blow right past them like the ever-increasing Oklahoma wind. Not more than a couple of days had passed and they were back at it again.
The kids may not have learned their lesson, but I had. I eagerly followed in father’s footsteps this time. And the next time. And the next. But something wasn’t working here. And I was going insane.
I sat stewing, yet refusing to let myself become one of those parents who counts down the days until school starts because they can’t stand to be around their kids. (Although, I’m starting to see where those folks might be coming from.) I decided it was time to regroup. Get creative. Be in charge. I am, after all, the mom.
The next day, upon the first cross word that I heard, I informed the boys that we would be taking a different approach to learning how to get along this summer. They looked at me like I was speaking Spanish.
I restate: “I will not listen to little boys fuss and argue all summer long. If you can’t play together and get along, I will give each of you a job to do. This will not be a fun job. You will not enjoy it. After the job has been completed, you may then decide to try and play together in a more loving and appropriate way. Any questions?”
One boy gave a teenage grunt that he is far to young to have yet mastered. The other was a little too intrigued. “What kind of job?” he asked.
Pondering a spur-of-the-moment response, I said, “Something really hard. And hot. And sweaty. Outside in the sun.”
I could see his mind working, thinking about whether I was kidding or not, so I made sure he understood. “I am not joking. This will be a punishment, and you will hate it. And I will like it, because you will be outside where I can not hear your cries.”
Satisfied with that answer, the moment passed. In fact several days passed where I had only to look upon them with a wicked, sideways glare to remind them about the impending wrath I was willing to hurl in their direction.
Could it be I have finally found the most effective tool in my summertime parenting kit? Threats of hard work, in the deadly summer heat…and me in the house enjoying it all? Life couldn’t get any better.
I’m happy to say I have yet to be forced into implementing the blood, sweat, and tears form of discipline. I am, however, not afraid to do so should the need arise. After all, learning to pick up a yard full of dog poop is a job that could teach them to have pride in their home. Maybe even build a little character.
So, if you should drive past our house this summer and see our boys picking up the thousands of Maple seed “helicopters” that have fallen to the ground, or should you witness them cutting the grass with a genuine pair of eight inch Fiskars, do me a favor. Honk and wave as you drive by in your air conditioned vehicle. Let ‘em know what they’re missing!
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Character education
How do we teach our kids to have character? It has been said that character is determined not by one’s actions in the presence of others, but by the choices he makes when he thinks no one is looking. That’s the kind of character that interests me.
The kind of character that drives a kid to say please and thank you with out being prompted at every turn. The kind that understands why we don’t allow someone to simply give us money without a little hard work to earn it.
The kind of character that would never allow us to downgrade a teammate who may have gone 0-4 from the plate that day, but instead would move us to give a kind word or a high five as they re-enter the dugout.
The kind of character that prompts one to put his chewing gum in the trash can and not on the ground for someone else to step in. The kind of character that causes a person to do something when he sees something that needs to be done, regardless of whether it’s his turn, his job, his mess.
I want our kids to have the kind of character that forces them to walk through the gate at a baseball game and pay the measly entry fee rather than sneak around the side or try to pass through unnoticed in a crowd.
It’s not enough in life just to look pretty, or to be smart, or to have the most friends. Character is doing the right thing despite all those qualities. Not relying on “being cute” to get you where you want to go in life. Looks fade; popularity is fleeting. But good character will stand the test of time.
So how can a mom even begin to teach these notions that are certainly so elusive to a little boy’s mind? These are my guiding principals:
1. Follow the leader is a game that is sometimes better suited for the playground than for life. If we are lucky, we may find great people to lead us. If we have character, we can learn to be one.
2. Someone is always watching. The simple fact of life is that nothing we do goes unnoticed. Whether it’s a little brother or sister, the kid in the grade behind us that thinks we hung the moon, or the little old lady who is completely indistinguishable in her porch swing behind those azalea bushes. Someone is always watching. Someone is always taking note of our character.
3. “Remember who you are.” It’s an easy thing to say, but a little more difficult to fully comprehend at five and six. But that doesn’t keep me from repeating it at every opportunity.
“Remember who you are,” I tell them as they embark on a road trip with someone else’s family. “Remember who you are,” as they run off to play, unsupervised, with a group of friends at the ball park. “Remember who you are,” after throwing (and subsequently kicking-twice) a helmet in frustration upon being put out at first base for the third time that night.
“What do you mean, ‘Remember who you are?’” the little one will ask.
“Remember who’s son you are,” I tell him. “You are Brisco Smith! Your daddy is Randy Smith. Your granddaddy is Larry Smith. Your great-granddaddy is Don Brantley.”
“I know all that,” he insists. “But what do you mean?”
“You are a Smith and a Brantley and a Sullivan, and we are all connected. The things you do reflect upon our family. Your daddy is a good man. A man with a good name. We don’t do things that would tarnish that.”
The boy looks at me with curious eyes. I know he doesn’t yet understand. But all knowledge has a wellspring from whence it first flows. It will come. It has to.
You see, character isn’t handed out at age 16 with a driver’s license. It isn’t doled out by the high school principal upon graduation. It is developed over time. It is taught. It is nurtured.
Are any of these lessons making a difference? Are our kids learning about anything important in life other than baseball? Some days I have to wonder. Especially when the examples I give them to follow are often so fallible. But onward we trudge. Learning and growing and making mistakes together.
A wise man once wrote, “A good name is more desirable than great riches.” A phrase that might by scoffed at in our day, when all signs point to getting ahead and the almighty dollar. However, this is a lasting truth, a pearl of wisdom. And with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of prayer, we’ll get there. After all, our boys have quite a legacy to uphold.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The kind of character that drives a kid to say please and thank you with out being prompted at every turn. The kind that understands why we don’t allow someone to simply give us money without a little hard work to earn it.
The kind of character that would never allow us to downgrade a teammate who may have gone 0-4 from the plate that day, but instead would move us to give a kind word or a high five as they re-enter the dugout.
The kind of character that prompts one to put his chewing gum in the trash can and not on the ground for someone else to step in. The kind of character that causes a person to do something when he sees something that needs to be done, regardless of whether it’s his turn, his job, his mess.
I want our kids to have the kind of character that forces them to walk through the gate at a baseball game and pay the measly entry fee rather than sneak around the side or try to pass through unnoticed in a crowd.
It’s not enough in life just to look pretty, or to be smart, or to have the most friends. Character is doing the right thing despite all those qualities. Not relying on “being cute” to get you where you want to go in life. Looks fade; popularity is fleeting. But good character will stand the test of time.
So how can a mom even begin to teach these notions that are certainly so elusive to a little boy’s mind? These are my guiding principals:
1. Follow the leader is a game that is sometimes better suited for the playground than for life. If we are lucky, we may find great people to lead us. If we have character, we can learn to be one.
2. Someone is always watching. The simple fact of life is that nothing we do goes unnoticed. Whether it’s a little brother or sister, the kid in the grade behind us that thinks we hung the moon, or the little old lady who is completely indistinguishable in her porch swing behind those azalea bushes. Someone is always watching. Someone is always taking note of our character.
3. “Remember who you are.” It’s an easy thing to say, but a little more difficult to fully comprehend at five and six. But that doesn’t keep me from repeating it at every opportunity.
“Remember who you are,” I tell them as they embark on a road trip with someone else’s family. “Remember who you are,” as they run off to play, unsupervised, with a group of friends at the ball park. “Remember who you are,” after throwing (and subsequently kicking-twice) a helmet in frustration upon being put out at first base for the third time that night.
“What do you mean, ‘Remember who you are?’” the little one will ask.
“Remember who’s son you are,” I tell him. “You are Brisco Smith! Your daddy is Randy Smith. Your granddaddy is Larry Smith. Your great-granddaddy is Don Brantley.”
“I know all that,” he insists. “But what do you mean?”
“You are a Smith and a Brantley and a Sullivan, and we are all connected. The things you do reflect upon our family. Your daddy is a good man. A man with a good name. We don’t do things that would tarnish that.”
The boy looks at me with curious eyes. I know he doesn’t yet understand. But all knowledge has a wellspring from whence it first flows. It will come. It has to.
You see, character isn’t handed out at age 16 with a driver’s license. It isn’t doled out by the high school principal upon graduation. It is developed over time. It is taught. It is nurtured.
Are any of these lessons making a difference? Are our kids learning about anything important in life other than baseball? Some days I have to wonder. Especially when the examples I give them to follow are often so fallible. But onward we trudge. Learning and growing and making mistakes together.
A wise man once wrote, “A good name is more desirable than great riches.” A phrase that might by scoffed at in our day, when all signs point to getting ahead and the almighty dollar. However, this is a lasting truth, a pearl of wisdom. And with a little bit of luck and a whole lot of prayer, we’ll get there. After all, our boys have quite a legacy to uphold.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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