For a brief moment, I became my mother. Upon coming home from work on Saturday, I discovered our child had managed to “color” on my favorite tablecloth. One look at this child’s bedroom suggests I can’t have anything nice for very long. But I’m an optimist. I don’t think a house should be a museum or that you should save the good stuff for when company visits. So, I
foolishly draped our table with a lovely red bark cloth tablecloth covered in white roses. Our child foolishly colored with markers that have a tendency to bleed through paper–in this case right onto a 1940’s vintage piece that was a gift from my adorable sister-in-law. Both the fabric and decent sister-in-laws are hard to come by–which means the artistic genius probably shouldn’t have been left unsupervised anywhere near it.
I’m not going to ask where his father was–since this particular child is eight and has been
told since before inception that, “If you are going to color at the table you have to USE A MAT.” But did he follow the parental wisdom he has been so privileged to receive for the past eight
years? No. He did not. No, instead he hauled out his markers and proceeded without caution. All that prenatal coaching down the drain. That’s when I became my mother.
I stamped my little feet. I scrunched up my face and through glinty eyes I uttered those bone chilling words all children come to dread, “HOW COULD YOU?” This was followed by a five minute tirade about taking more care, not being so selfish, being more responsible, and USING A MAT, FOR PEET’S SAKE! I then huffed, “Go ahead, jump on the couch, trash the house, color on every available surface. I don’t care anymore. And when your friends come over and ask why
you live in such a pit you can tell them it’s because we are WHITE TRASH.” I then stomped up the stairs to seethe in my room.
IZ, getting the distinct feeling he should back me up, spent another five minutes calmly explaining to boy wonder the importance of taking care of your things and other people’s things within reach of your markers.
I know what you are thinking. And I was thinking it too about three minutes into my seething. But, it’s not just a tablecloth. This child has a long history of “decorating” things that do not belong to him. Take the time he decided my china would look better with his artwork on it. Or the time he drew a map to Disneyland on his bedroom wall. Or when he gilded the edges of an expensive
Interlinear Bible with markers. Or grafitti-ed the foam interior of his father’s Palm Pilot case. No, this child has a penchant for making things more colorful and I have to admit it gets me thinking about my parenting skills. In comparison to my eight year-old self I realize this child is responsible for very little around this house. I don’t think it’s too much to expect him to put away his toothbrush or hang up his wet towels. It’s hardly abuse to suggest he respect our home–even if I was giving him the “look” in the process.
No, there is something about my childhood that makes me loath to nag him into responsibility. My mother’s standards for clean included the holy grail of domesticity: You could eat off her floors. And she had a bad habit of nagging that often escalated into all-out war. And while I can understand her desire for clean, having done my fair share of picking up after a very messy boy–I can’t bring myself to become a nag or a yeller. Instead, I seem to be content to follow behind
the child picking up after him. Hanging up towels, putting away toothbrushes, until that moment when I pick up my cherished tablecloth to find it covered in black marker. Then, then I become my mother.
But, I’m not my mother. Despite my tantrum, it’s not my style to stay mad. Besides, I think you have to parent for the long haul–if the house isn’t perfect but you raise a responsible child, who really cares? Which gets me at the core of my frustration–in the process of being a tolerant parent, in an effort to not be a nag or a ranting lunatic, somehow I’ve coddled my child. I’ve done too much. I’ve expected too little. In the long run this is a recipe for disaster. After much talk and brainstorming, IZ and I decided that it was time for a rite of passage.
Note to the eight year old: Yes, you too can become a responsible human being. And you get to start now, lucky you!
In a word, we bribed him. We set up a schedule of chores he is expected to accomplish (with gentle reminders) on his own. If he completes these things then he can be paid for the extra chores available. If he doesn’t–then he gets to do the other chores without any financial gain. We reminded him about all the things we had to do for FREE when “we were his age.” We told him he was a really lucky kid to have parents who loved him enough to recognize when they needed to
make a course change in their parenting approach. And then we gave him the cold hard facts. Funny how he can calculate his projected earnings for the year but can’t seem to hear me when I
suggest he pick up his shoes. So, I’ll let money do the nagging for awhile.
And before all you naysayers out there start pointing out that cash is not a proper parenting tool. Consider this: boy wonder did ask if he could earn enough money to replace my tablecloth.
