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!
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