I drive quite a bit. I am a glorified chauffeur. Living where we do, in a rural community, nothing is within a 5 minute drive except the post office, the farm, the Inn and a local Mom and Pop style store where gas is priced at $4.89 a gallon and a gallon of milk is about the same (God love them). Because of this, I put close to 30,000 miles on my vehicle’s odometer every year. Our public school system serves 10 towns. The Middle School and the High School are 9 miles away from my door. Thankfully, each town has its own elementary school, or the mileage on my vehicle would have been even crazier, in years past. I get a new vehicle every 5 years. A costly venture.
To my children: As a mother, it is in my job description to: drive you places, bake cookies for your bake sale, volunteer my time to your various causes and interests, stroke your head when you are tired, rub your back when you throw up, cheer you on when you do well or do not so well, reprimand your indiscretions, get frustrated with your homework that I don’t remember/understand, limit your video game time, attempt to ward off your punk attitude, not allow you to speak to me in a ‘certain way’ and guard against anything harmful that might cross your path. Most importantly, it is my job to sculpt you into someone that is thankful.
The other day, as I was organizing and packing for my son's week long school trip toWashington DC, the thought popped into my head that, my son, at the age of 14 years old, should be packing his own suitcase. I have always raised my children to be independent, why would I do this for him? Because it feels right, that’s why. I WANT to pack it. That way, I know that all of its contents are correct, in the most logical spot, and that most importantly, he has enough underwear and socks. As I folded shorts and shirts on the dining room table and neatly placed them in the suitcase (that undoubtedly would not stay that way), my son came up to me, kissed my cheek, wrapped his arms around me, and thanked me for packing for him.
SUCKER…I am a sucker for their admiration.
Both of my children have learned to appreciate when something is done for them. Not all of the time, but a very high percentage of the time, they truly appreciate it. I, too, have always told them when I have appreciated the things that they and others have done for me.
In our house, my kids do not get an allowance. I certainly don’t get paid for doing things around the house, why should they? Instead they are given money as needed, within reason, and will occasionally earn extra cash for doing hard work around the house and yard that is not on their regular list of daily chores. It’s about the act of doing because it is expected to be done. Not because you will get a reward for doing it. I don’t believe in bribes. I have never promised my kids that I will buy them ‘this or that’ if they do what I ask or if they accomplish something. I believe that, the will to do something without the benefit of reward, needs to be present in all people. I believe in expectations. I expect them to do, because, quite simply, they can.
I am a big proponent of Random Acts of Kindness. I will buy, give or create things and scenarios for my children to show my gratitude to them for being great kids in order to surprise them, but they don't 'expect' it. Writing this makes me realize that it has been a while since my last act of random kindness towards my children, I need to fix that.
What they have been taught to expect is that their mother and father will always love them and respect them and that they will be treated like important people. I really think that kids need this. Not the most recent video game or most current electronic device, but the fact that they are cared for and respected. The "Tiger Mother" philosophy may raise kids into 'successful' adults, the statistics don't lie, but are they happy? Truly happy to the core? Success does not equal happiness.
Recently, my friend Wendy posted on Facebook an excerpt from her favorite poem “the Lanyard”.
I enjoyed it so much that it inspired me to write about this topic. The feeling of having gratitude, is easily translated into love, respect and admiration. Not being able to ‘repay it’ and not expecting it to be ‘repaid’ is very valuable.
The Lanyard - Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
I have received many a home made card, pot holder, pottery from art class, handpicked bouquet, sparkly picture frame and Christmas ornament, just to name a few. I often glance at the handmade gifts that adorn the shelves and tables of the house, the window sills and the refridgerator. I will treasure many of these gifts from afar, as they continue to collect in the oversized bottom drawer in my bureau and boxes in the basement. The biggest and best gifts that I have ever received, will only be captured in a glance, a touch, a smile or a hearbeat.
To my children: You owe me nothing. I would have never in a million years began the journey of having you, raising you, and loving you with the thought that you would owe me something in return. Where I am concerned, you only owe yourself.
Wait...a phone call, you owe me a phone call every once in a while...and a visit, I will need a visit from time to time...
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