I AM the parent, You are the child or Train a Child Up

Okay, so yes, that is a little petulant and somewhat whiny; yet I find myself saying it to my 'tween daughter repeatedly.

"I am the parent, you are the child. Now, do what I asked you to do."

I give her an instruction and she either gives ME an 'better' idea or continues on with whatever important 'tween thing she was doing at the moment, as if what I was saying was optional. Then, when she does take up my command, she does it at the slowest pace imaginable to womankind, and with the least degree of follow through. This means I have to go back, repeat the instruction coupled with a threat, and get the 'sighs' from her as she marches off to do the chore or assignment again.

Recently, I have made progress at being a good disciplinarian with my children. I don't mean that I beat them senseless, but that I employ methods of discipline which they will take with them through life to set boundaries and limits when they are outside of my authority. This practice will lead them to seek wisdom in the things they do.

Most who know me well, know that I am not naturally good at discipline. I have been talking to my kids since they were in utero and expect them to understand what I am saying, and move on that. As far as I am concerned, they knew my voice before they were born, so they ought to take heed to it. When my daughter was 4, if she whined I would tell her to use her words, because 'Mommy doesn't like whining'. She did, and all was well. This is the way I thought it should work. However, when my son came along, he did not follow suit. I would say "don't whine, Mommy doesn't like that." He would look at me with two fingers in his mouth, dumbfounded as to why it should matter whether or not I liked it. This was about him, not me. What worked so well with my daughter was now failing miserably with my son, and a mere glimmer of what was to come. Who knew they were not going to follow my ever command? I had to regroup, fall back, seek assistance.

The children of this generation are not moved by threats, only by action. I threaten my kids regularly. I tell them if they start to tell a lie I will hit them in their windpipe to cut off the air of the devil before his work can be done through them. I have made so many insane statements such as these, that they use some of them for folly now. When I have to repeat a directive I have given them, I usually accompany that with another preposterous threat of which there is no way I can or will follow through.

I wouldn't have ever warranted a repeat order from my parents, unless I was considering going toothless as a fashion statement. The funny thing is, I got one whipping in my full life that I can recall. All my Dad had to do was raise his voice, and I was done, and I somehow believe that my mother has both an evil eye and close ties to the black mafia. She didn't ever have to worry about us getting too far out of line. If worse came to worse, she could just say "I am going to tell your father as soon as he gets home."

Why, oh why does my child not have this same reverence for me? How have I failed to instill the fear of God into my children? Is it too late? How can I recoup lost ground?

My nephew told me I need to get the Jesus belt and bring all of this to a halt, a stand still, an immediate end. What is the Jesus belt? Oh, that is the wide and thick leather belt that Father's usually own that will make an errant youth cry out to Jesus in repentance with promises to return to the path called straight.

That got me to thinking about what was different between now and then. My Dad could carry his around his neck and we girls would get right on our responsibilities - it was just the mere threat. What was it about my parents disciplinary tactics that worked?

First, the rules were established. These were the rules of this house and it was not a democracy. I was giving my children to much power to vote and veto in my household. They don't work all day, worry and pray, provide and nurture. I do that - I am the head of this state, and there is no vice president.

Next, my parents had follow through. If they said they were going to do something, they did it. If my father wanted to punish me, and he told me I was going to clean out the hallway closet, I did it - right there and then. Not later, and not with his help. I did a thorough job, for fear of that Jesus built around his neck.

Finally, I feared the Jesus built for two reasons - because they followed through on everything else they said they would do, why would I doubt there would be follow through on that issue? Secondly, the reputation of the built proceeded it's coming. That is another reason it is named such that it is - I had heard of it even before I ever saw it. Oh, the tales of the tail that had encountered the Jesus belt - a lot of them mythical even until this day.

So, history had given me the formula: Authoritarian household, establish the house rules and the clear leader of the house. I am the parent and you are the child. Follow through - make promises I can keep. If I say I am gonna take the air out of a wind pipe, be able to back that up with a few breathless moments for an unsuspecting child (JK), but you get the idea. Prove that I will do exactly as I say. Leave no room for doubt. And, use what is already branded. The Jesus belt was branded long before my children were even a thought. The nieces and nephews lay the groundwork - they have told the stories of 'the belt', and I am ready to upgrade from my John the Baptist belt to one with full authority and the power of life and death in it's mere appearance.

Now the changes in my disciplinary tactics have not changed over night. I mess up sometimes, but I fall back and regroup. I remind myself that if I don't provide clear discipline and boundaries for my children at home, then the world is waiting to do so with all kind of unpleasant and some even fatal lessons of its own. I remind myself that education and discipline together are key ingredients to a successful life, and prime the recipients to be seekers of wisdom in all of their ways. I remind myself that it is my job to be the parent, and not the child, so I should have something to say if I am going to tell them what to do.

I was listening to Walther Smith's Street Soldiers on 107.5, and a caller suggested that we needed to go back to the lessons learned in the past from such groups as the Black Panthers. His point was not that we needed to become uber militant, but that we needed to become a cohesive working community of providers and nurturers, building an inter community socio-eco-agricultural network that will sustain. I agree with that caller - we need to take the lessons from the path, and as my Father would say "eat the meat and throw away the bone."

Follow me as I walk this path of discipline in my household. I am going old school on 'em...

The Mommy Punk

So, tonight I participated in a focus group for a local parenting magazine and website. My children got to play for 2 hours at one of their favorite venues, and I got to sit with like minded people and listen and interact. I loved the social interaction, and even made some good contacts. I was also surprised to see a good friend who worked for the parent company of the magazine. Plus, they had food. That was a win/win situation.

After two hours, I went to collect my kids from their playtime. Of course, Bobbi had made new friends who knew her by name. And ELIJAH was stripped down to his first layer of t-shirts. He has taken to layering t-shirts over his undershirt, and tonight being no different, was down to the crayon blue Phat Pharm t-shirt. His jacket was sitting at the area entrance desk, and he was holding his first layer t-shirt in his hand. I was wondering why my child had stripped when he handed me a soaking wet t-shirt, and said in a giddy voice "Mom, I played in the water."

My mind, already recovering from migraine mayhem, begin to twirl out of control. I think I stood still for a full minute looking at this little person, wondering from whence he had come so I could send him back there.

Now, you must understand that earlier in the day I had gotten an email from Elijah's teacher about his in class behavior, and how he reported that she could tell me if she wanted, because nothing would happen. He may as well have flashed in neon "I have a Mommy Punk" for a parent.  He was already on My List. Of course, public displays of near child abuse are not socially acceptable. I just got him all zipped up in his warm jacket and put on his coat over top.

I carried the wet shirt to the car and got him in and seat belted. All the while I was thinking, Lord, why must I discipline this child? I abhor disciplining my children. But if I don't do it now, the world will do it later.

Elijah must've been thinking to himself in that backseat: We have spent tons of time playing at C.O.S.I. I know I am not supposed to get that wet. Oh man, I forgot about school. These thoughts had to be twirling through his mind, because he suddenly fake yawned really big and said "I'm tired. I just want to lay down."

I am often amused when my babies try to work their way out of a web they weaved. Not tonight. Telling a teacher that you don't care about authority is a no-no in this house. I am on the teachers side.

On the way home, he was quiet. I was actually glad about the quietness because I was bone tired. I have not participated in much since these migraines started and I was fully engaged at this event. Maybe I would just talk with him and put him to bed.

Then, to my surprise and consternation, while getting out of the car to go into the house, Elijah takes his wet shirt and rubs it into the snow mountain on the ground. I was flabbergasted. It would never occur to me, after nearly missing discipline AND getting to play at a place I love for over 2 hours, to remind my tentative abuser  parent of my capacity to misbehave.

That did it. I was going to give him exactly what he deserved, whether I wanted to do it or not. He had crossed the line of no return, and stubbornly believed he could get away without repercussion.

He basically was calling me the Mommy Punk. He pushed the chip off my shoulder. It was on! Spanking time. We had hung our coats, and Elijah sat on a heap near the sofa, sucking his two fingers, and doing a one man performance of  the depth of human tiredness. He yawned, he pulled sofa pillows around him. He lay over to this side and that side. All the while I was straightening the living room, making sure Bobbi finished her homework and thinking to myself  'why do I have to discipline this child?'

Then I remembered that it is my responsibility to oversee this child and provide him with guidance and instruction. If I don't give him correction now, he is going to be out of hand repeatedly. He would be right - nothing as going to happen. I put on my disciplinary hat and got busy.

Now, I just want to hug him and tell him he can sleep in Mommy's bed, but I restrain myself. I will not be the Mommy Punk in this house. Will not.