Sometimes, as a parent, you have to preach a lesson to your kids that you don't fully believe in yourself. For example, I tell my kids that because we're a family, we share everything. Do I believe that? Heck no. There are items around this house that I am absolutely without question unwilling to share.... like the secret ice cream at the back of the freezer. That is not to be shared. Ever.
Ever, ever.
Yet I still tell my kids that families share everything. There're two reasons I do this: one, it simplifies my life. It's much easier to tell my bickering kids to "share it or lose it" than it is to investigate the conflict, play judge and jury and then deal with the unhappiness of whichever party doesn't get their way. So there's that. And then there's the fact that I also believe in the idea that families should share everything. It's a fair concept, and perhaps if I were a more generous person who was able to find a healthier way to release my stress late at night, well.....then I probably wouldn't mind sharing my secret ice cream. (But I'm not. So the ice cream stays hidden, it stays secret, and it stays mine.)
This past week, I've realized that there's another lesson I've been teaching that I don't fully believe in (though I really wasn't aware of just how wishy washy I am on the subject). I've been preaching "use your words, not your fists" since my kids were itty bitty. And, like the above example, I preached it mostly to simplify my life. I also believed in the idea of it- which I still do- just not as much as I did at the beginning of the week.
After school last week, I went to pick up the kids. I could immediately from the way the kids were walking towards the car- J stomping along with a defiant look on his face and PG following behind looking slightly troubled- that something huge had just gone down. So I decided to spook them with my swami mommy powers and asked as soon as the doors opened, "What'd I miss?". They froze, exchanged uneasy glances, climbed in, and then PG, in her best "let's be reasonable" voice turned to J and said, "Jake. I have to tell her, okay?"
Jake slammed himself back against the seat rest and scowled.
I confirmed that, yes indeed, she had to tell me, and this is what she said:
"A few minutes ago a second grader grabbed J's arm and twisted it up behind his back. So J got mad and punched him in the stomach."
I narrowed my eyes and clarified. "A kid just went up to him and twisted his arm?"
They both nodded, with J still scowling.
"And Jake PUNCHED him?" My eyebrows reversed direction and shot up to the middle of my forehead.
"Yes," said Grace. "And then that kid got all red and he started crying."
"The kid started CRYING?" My eyebrow calisthenics continued.
Again, an affirmative nod from the back seat.
"Good!" I said, and then mentally clapped a hand over my mouth. There was no doubt that I was proud of Jake, but I started questioning not only whether it was okay to feel that way, but whether I should even let him know that I felt that way. Fighting is very un-PC nowadays. Most schools have a zero tolerance policy against it- it doesn't matter if it was self defense or not, all parties involved are held accountable. Not to mention there's all the articles in the parenting magazines about how to teach your child to solve bully conflicts peacefully (someday I'll write about how much I've come to hate parenting magazines with all their ultra PC articles offering clean, formulated, logical solutions for any parenting conundrum imaginable. Nine years of motherhood has taught me that there is no formula, parenting is mostly illogical, and it is most definitely not clean.)
I was suddenly very confused. I thought about the few fight stories I've heard from guy friends over the years. In all of them, it seemed that their parents' main concern after hearing that their child was in a fight was who got the best of who. I realized that this generation is a whole different ball game and for a moment I was a little jealous that we no longer lived in that time.
I glanced in the back seat at Jake. He was still angry, but I thought I saw a bit of smugness blooming at the corners of his mouth. I thought about how, since he started school I've always been a bit worried. He's small for his age. His pants from preschool still fit him around his waist (although they're highwaters). His little sister only weighs 2 pounds less than him. I can wrap my thumb and forefinger around his bicep and have them touch. How in the world did he hit a bigger kid hard enough to make him cry?
I made them both repeat the story. This time I asked for more details. J still wasn't sure if he was going to be in trouble or not, so it was PG that did most of the talking. Turns out that the kid had been at the corner before. He'd never been physical with the kids, but they said he taunted and teased a lot. On this day, he was bragging about how strong he was and he decided to demonstrate by grabbing J and twisting his arm. Then he let go, and it was then that Jake punched him. So it wasn't so much self-defense that made J punch him in the gut as it was the fury at the violation of being manhandled. To which I still say, good for him. To every fight, there are two aspects: the psychological and the physical. If you ask me, triumph on the psychological side is a bigger victory, and I believe in this case, J probably came out on top. I have a hunch that the other little boy's tears were more from shock and humiliation than from any pain. This hunch was confirmed when Grace later told me that as they were walking to the car, J angrily muttered to her "I didn't even hit him that hard. That kid is a wimp."
The next part of the story is my favorite though.
I asked PG what happened after the kid started crying.
"Then, (and she gets very indignant here) the kid looked at me like I was supposed to do something about Jake!"
"What'd you do?"
She shrugs. "I said to Jake, 'Tell him you're sorry.'"
I couldn't help it. I started smiling.
"You made your brother apologize?"
She is totally exasperated now and says "I don't know, mom! The kid was crying! Jake wasn't. So I made him say sorry."
Whenever I play out this entire scenario in my head, that part of it just makes me so happy. I think it might be because even though G doesn't realize it, she is totally Jake's mom when I'm not there. (No one say anything though. The realization would probably be the end of her.)
Once we pulled into our driveway, I turned off the engine and turned around to look at the kids. J still didn't know if he was off the hook, and frankly, I still wasn't sure if he was either. This is the kind of thing I like to handle with Matt, but since everyone present was waiting for me to make a call, I felt kind of backed into a corner. So I said "Look. When you guys are at school, or really, anywhere in public, I expect three things. I want you to be kind, I want you be one of the helpers, and I want you to never start anything. But if you've been all those things and someone else starts something, then I expect you to stand up for yourself. I'll never be angry at you for sticking up for yourself." Then I looked at J, who was looking a bit too smug now that he realized he wasn't going to get in trouble, and I said "Jake. You probably could have handled that situation just as well if you had told that kid if he touched you again, you'd hurt him. You didn't have to hit him."
He nodded while I thought silently to myself, "But I'm glad you did."
Then I went inside, grabbed the phone and took it into the bathroom where I locked the door and called Matt. I related the whole story to him and he parroted back the surprising parts as I had done ("He PUNCHED him?" "The other kid cried?") and then he said, "Well. GOOD!"
Apparently we were on the same page.
After all that, here's the lesson I learned this past week: One, I'm proud of my kids. I'm proud of Gracie for making her brother apologize. I love that she did that. Of course, I would have been equally proud of her if she had said "Yeah, kid. There's more where that came from SO BACK OFF." (Obviously you can tell that I've been fantasizing about what I would have done.)
Also, I'm proud of Jake- not for punching the kid, but for standing up for himself. I would have preferred it if he had used his words, but that's asking a lot from a six year old in this situation. While I've been teaching my kids that fighting is not an answer, I've also learned that sometimes such situations aren't that cut and dry. I guess Jake figured that out ahead of me. And he did what needed to be done for his own self respect. He felt on his own, in those few moments, the psychological side of what was going down, and for Jake the physical pain in his arm was nothing compared to the emotional injustice of being manhandled. The fact that someone treated him that way pissed him off and he felt the need to let that kid know that he wasn't going to tolerate it. And you know what? I'm glad he did. I feel relieved of a lot of my worries about him. Thank you, God. The boy has gumption. He has guts. He has some self respect. He's small, but he's mighty (ish). This mama's going to sleep a little better tonight.
Right after I finish off the secret ice cream hidden in the back of the freezer.
Ever, ever.
Yet I still tell my kids that families share everything. There're two reasons I do this: one, it simplifies my life. It's much easier to tell my bickering kids to "share it or lose it" than it is to investigate the conflict, play judge and jury and then deal with the unhappiness of whichever party doesn't get their way. So there's that. And then there's the fact that I also believe in the idea that families should share everything. It's a fair concept, and perhaps if I were a more generous person who was able to find a healthier way to release my stress late at night, well.....then I probably wouldn't mind sharing my secret ice cream. (But I'm not. So the ice cream stays hidden, it stays secret, and it stays mine.)
This past week, I've realized that there's another lesson I've been teaching that I don't fully believe in (though I really wasn't aware of just how wishy washy I am on the subject). I've been preaching "use your words, not your fists" since my kids were itty bitty. And, like the above example, I preached it mostly to simplify my life. I also believed in the idea of it- which I still do- just not as much as I did at the beginning of the week.
After school last week, I went to pick up the kids. I could immediately from the way the kids were walking towards the car- J stomping along with a defiant look on his face and PG following behind looking slightly troubled- that something huge had just gone down. So I decided to spook them with my swami mommy powers and asked as soon as the doors opened, "What'd I miss?". They froze, exchanged uneasy glances, climbed in, and then PG, in her best "let's be reasonable" voice turned to J and said, "Jake. I have to tell her, okay?"
Jake slammed himself back against the seat rest and scowled.
I confirmed that, yes indeed, she had to tell me, and this is what she said:
"A few minutes ago a second grader grabbed J's arm and twisted it up behind his back. So J got mad and punched him in the stomach."
I narrowed my eyes and clarified. "A kid just went up to him and twisted his arm?"
They both nodded, with J still scowling.
"And Jake PUNCHED him?" My eyebrows reversed direction and shot up to the middle of my forehead.
"Yes," said Grace. "And then that kid got all red and he started crying."
"The kid started CRYING?" My eyebrow calisthenics continued.
Again, an affirmative nod from the back seat.
"Good!" I said, and then mentally clapped a hand over my mouth. There was no doubt that I was proud of Jake, but I started questioning not only whether it was okay to feel that way, but whether I should even let him know that I felt that way. Fighting is very un-PC nowadays. Most schools have a zero tolerance policy against it- it doesn't matter if it was self defense or not, all parties involved are held accountable. Not to mention there's all the articles in the parenting magazines about how to teach your child to solve bully conflicts peacefully (someday I'll write about how much I've come to hate parenting magazines with all their ultra PC articles offering clean, formulated, logical solutions for any parenting conundrum imaginable. Nine years of motherhood has taught me that there is no formula, parenting is mostly illogical, and it is most definitely not clean.)
I was suddenly very confused. I thought about the few fight stories I've heard from guy friends over the years. In all of them, it seemed that their parents' main concern after hearing that their child was in a fight was who got the best of who. I realized that this generation is a whole different ball game and for a moment I was a little jealous that we no longer lived in that time.
I glanced in the back seat at Jake. He was still angry, but I thought I saw a bit of smugness blooming at the corners of his mouth. I thought about how, since he started school I've always been a bit worried. He's small for his age. His pants from preschool still fit him around his waist (although they're highwaters). His little sister only weighs 2 pounds less than him. I can wrap my thumb and forefinger around his bicep and have them touch. How in the world did he hit a bigger kid hard enough to make him cry?
I made them both repeat the story. This time I asked for more details. J still wasn't sure if he was going to be in trouble or not, so it was PG that did most of the talking. Turns out that the kid had been at the corner before. He'd never been physical with the kids, but they said he taunted and teased a lot. On this day, he was bragging about how strong he was and he decided to demonstrate by grabbing J and twisting his arm. Then he let go, and it was then that Jake punched him. So it wasn't so much self-defense that made J punch him in the gut as it was the fury at the violation of being manhandled. To which I still say, good for him. To every fight, there are two aspects: the psychological and the physical. If you ask me, triumph on the psychological side is a bigger victory, and I believe in this case, J probably came out on top. I have a hunch that the other little boy's tears were more from shock and humiliation than from any pain. This hunch was confirmed when Grace later told me that as they were walking to the car, J angrily muttered to her "I didn't even hit him that hard. That kid is a wimp."
The next part of the story is my favorite though.
I asked PG what happened after the kid started crying.
"Then, (and she gets very indignant here) the kid looked at me like I was supposed to do something about Jake!"
"What'd you do?"
She shrugs. "I said to Jake, 'Tell him you're sorry.'"
I couldn't help it. I started smiling.
"You made your brother apologize?"
She is totally exasperated now and says "I don't know, mom! The kid was crying! Jake wasn't. So I made him say sorry."
Whenever I play out this entire scenario in my head, that part of it just makes me so happy. I think it might be because even though G doesn't realize it, she is totally Jake's mom when I'm not there. (No one say anything though. The realization would probably be the end of her.)
Once we pulled into our driveway, I turned off the engine and turned around to look at the kids. J still didn't know if he was off the hook, and frankly, I still wasn't sure if he was either. This is the kind of thing I like to handle with Matt, but since everyone present was waiting for me to make a call, I felt kind of backed into a corner. So I said "Look. When you guys are at school, or really, anywhere in public, I expect three things. I want you to be kind, I want you be one of the helpers, and I want you to never start anything. But if you've been all those things and someone else starts something, then I expect you to stand up for yourself. I'll never be angry at you for sticking up for yourself." Then I looked at J, who was looking a bit too smug now that he realized he wasn't going to get in trouble, and I said "Jake. You probably could have handled that situation just as well if you had told that kid if he touched you again, you'd hurt him. You didn't have to hit him."
He nodded while I thought silently to myself, "But I'm glad you did."
Then I went inside, grabbed the phone and took it into the bathroom where I locked the door and called Matt. I related the whole story to him and he parroted back the surprising parts as I had done ("He PUNCHED him?" "The other kid cried?") and then he said, "Well. GOOD!"
Apparently we were on the same page.
After all that, here's the lesson I learned this past week: One, I'm proud of my kids. I'm proud of Gracie for making her brother apologize. I love that she did that. Of course, I would have been equally proud of her if she had said "Yeah, kid. There's more where that came from SO BACK OFF." (Obviously you can tell that I've been fantasizing about what I would have done.)
Also, I'm proud of Jake- not for punching the kid, but for standing up for himself. I would have preferred it if he had used his words, but that's asking a lot from a six year old in this situation. While I've been teaching my kids that fighting is not an answer, I've also learned that sometimes such situations aren't that cut and dry. I guess Jake figured that out ahead of me. And he did what needed to be done for his own self respect. He felt on his own, in those few moments, the psychological side of what was going down, and for Jake the physical pain in his arm was nothing compared to the emotional injustice of being manhandled. The fact that someone treated him that way pissed him off and he felt the need to let that kid know that he wasn't going to tolerate it. And you know what? I'm glad he did. I feel relieved of a lot of my worries about him. Thank you, God. The boy has gumption. He has guts. He has some self respect. He's small, but he's mighty (ish). This mama's going to sleep a little better tonight.
Right after I finish off the secret ice cream hidden in the back of the freezer.
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