Like every kid, I tried to have my way. A lot. One autumn school night at the supper table in our house the subject of a new movie was being discussed. There were three interested adults, and me.
"Let's go! Let's go!" I cried. Not out loud. Internally. I was only about eight or nine years old, so my encouragements did not always sway the crowd at home. But to my relief, someone finally read my thoughts. "Why don't we go?" they asked enthusiastically, and I nodded seriously, as if to shrug nonchalantly, "Ok by me," while inside I was yelling, "Yes!"
My mother looked at me and asked, "Have you finished all your homework?"
"Yes, ma'am," I responded. She took note of my answer and we all got ready. My mom, dad, older brother and I went to see the movie. It was really good.
After we got home I got ready for bed right away, gave everybody a good-night hug, and went to my room. I shut the door, turned off the light, and settled down under the covers.
Seemed very responsible, didn't I? Then, when I felt it was safe, I grabbed my math papers from under the covers, stumbled to a drawer to get a flashlight, crept back into bed; under the tent of the sheets and bedcovers, I began to work on finishing my math homework.
I had about five minutes worth of work done when I heard a voice near the edge of my bed. "What are you doing under there?" My mom's voice. Calm. Serious. Uh oh.
About the time I was pulling the tent of covers off my head and switching off the flashlight, she was pulling back the tent, reaching for the math papers, and leaving the room. Her parting words were, "You'll have to go to school without finished homework." She knew that would not be easy for me.
She gave no sermon about all the principles involved in my self-inflicted caper, like the lying, covering up (literally), sneakiness, and downright irresponsibleness of me.
Not another word was said about it. Early the next morning I did what I could, which was not much since I was not, nor have I ever been that I remember, a morning person. I slinked into class and dreaded the math time all day. I remember it well. I hope I did not make up a "little white lie" for my teacher, but I imagine I knew better. My mother would likely cover that base in some way, having a chat later with the teacher to find out how I explained it, or if I even tried to do so.
I got good grades in school, most of the time. I don't remember ever being paid for any of them or highly praised. The card was signed by my mom or dad and that was that. If I had a project, I had to ask for any equipment or resources I might need. No one was there anticipating every need. I did get one question a lot: "Have you finished all your homework?" That routine followed through every year of school.
When I was sixteen my dad wanted me to have a job. My mom did not, but she yielded to dad's idea and I had a job in a shoe shop, every Saturday. I saw more feet than faces and eventually learned enough to please the owners. I know that because one day out of hundreds of days one of them said, "You fit that lady's shoe really well." No raise was involved.
I earned or accidentally won a few honors or awards, and when that happened my mother would likely say, "Mrs. So-and-So called today. She wanted to pass on congratulations about the award." That was enough of that, from Mama's perspective.
My mother made many clothes for me when I got in a pinch. It was a good way to help me get what I had in mind without paying a lot of store money. She spent time with me at the fabric shop where one of her nieces, my cousin, worked. We would look at the fabric-linen? wool? cotton? Which would be best?-and we looked at lots of patterns before the final decisions.
I still remember especially a velvet jacket with covered buttons. It ended just below the waist, pulled in nicely at the waistline, and had a soft collar. I wish I still had it today, just to keep in the closet to look at.
One day when I was all grown up, I was sitting in a dentist's office waiting for one of my daughters' appointments to end. I was all caught up in some magazine when a man-a father, I supposed-came in with a very young little boy, about four, no more. As soon as they sat down, the man began conversing with the child.
I say he conversed rather than talked with the boy because of all the big words he was using. I think he would prefer "converse" to "talk" any day. It seemed he was over the top with serious reinforcement of everything the child repeated during my time near them. He even tried to teach his boy how to pronounce and understand the term "pediatric orthodontics" with a little lecture on its meaning. I am not kidding you.
I knew that the self-esteem movement had taken root, but I thought that was taking it way too far. The conversation seemed almost robotic. Phoniness with children has never impressed me, so maybe I was too hard or unfair to "assess" the dad. But this kind of educational conversation has been rampant for decades. In the Mall, I once heard a mom tell a tot, who looked all of 15 months, "This is unacceptable behavior." I felt like saying "Huh?" for the little one.
Sorry, but strong opinions leave me no other view. And here's another confession: I wanted to say to the man at the pediatric orthodontist's, "Wake up. Enjoy your son. Read a picture book with him. Why try to make him into a mini-Einstein?" (Oops. Possibly I have known too many unhappy Phi Beta Kappas.)
It's clear I appreciate even now my mother's natural ways. She would never have used "methods," would she, although I did become aware, later, of how well she knew me. She knew you could not push me or rush me into anything. Her quiet pressure and patience (now I see it all more clearly) usually did it. It was a kind of old-fashioned love, unspoken, uncontrived, unforced, and reliable. Most of my friends had pretty much the same. I guess I'm feeling nostalgic here. Mom's way ended up giving enough attention and time---and I'm sure she got many unmentioned headaches and worries in the process.
I think lots of kids do not think, "Mom, self-esteem me." I think a lot of them are saying, "Mom, and Dad, stick with me, no matter what. I need your love to show through in more than words. I'd like your undivided attention just to let me spill things out sometimes. It's a tough world at school, too. I need fewer sermons on how many mistakes I make and less false praise. I can deal with the facts, but please don't hold my mistakes against me or exaggerate my accomplishments. Help me learn how to deal with people without the yelling and screaming that's sometimes going on out there, where I am spending more and more time."
Need I spell it out that I knew my mom was a very practical, friendly, sometimes serious, and very for-real person? That she would meet with my teachers if there were special problems? That she never said I was perfect, yet I still don't know what she thought were my weaknesses? And, yes, I confess: we did eat dinner (actually, supper) together, and we were all there almost every night, including when high school schedules got really crazy. I forgot till now to mention that my busy parents prayed for their three children all the time, a fact they "forgot" to mention until we were old enough to appreciate the facts.
Lord, thank you for parents who love their children and show it in the everyday routines, fun, and tests of life. May all parents realize that You love them, too, and that You are there for them, so they can tell You every need and concern. Amen.
Jean Purcell is a book publisher and writer. Her first book was Not All Roads Lead Home under her pen name, Jane Bullard. Her web site is http://www.opinebooks.com and her Writing and Publishing Nonfiction Books blog is at http://janebullard.blogspot.com/ Sign up for the free Opinari Quarterly for Christian Writers, Publishing Professionals, Book Lovers, and Reviewers on her web site.
Good day, Jane. Your story-telling style is just something. Reading your well-written article brought back memories of my own mom. Thinking about it now, I'm glad Mom never heard or used "self-esteem". ~mogama~
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