 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
||||||||||
 |
|
||||||||||
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |
|
||||||||||
| Hats and T-Shirts Aren't Everything |
by
Odds Bodkin
Remember the old Chinese story about the father who uses sticks to teach his sons the importance of helping each other? He shows them how each stick by itself can be snapped in two; but when he ties them together, none of his strong sons can break the bundle?
Sure, it's a cliché. But bear with me. Against all odds it worked with my three boys the other day. Maybe a cliché is only a cliché when you've already heard it, I don't know. To my amazement, they hadn't.
Of course, if perfect harmony reigns in your home and your children never argue, bicker about silly things, compete for favors or display primate territoriality of any kind, this article isn't for you.
You should be writing articles for the rest of us.
No, this article is for parents like me whose children, no matter how we adults bend over backwards to be scrupulously fair, don't see it that way.
Instill the virtues of cooperation? We've tried. For years we've talked about it. Point out that personal possessions like hats and t-shirts aren't the reason for life on this planet? Hey, we've done that, too. Some days they behave as if what we've taught them has taken hold; other days, forget it.
However, we made some progress last week. It was early evening. Dinner was over. Dishes lay on the kitchen counter. Some petty issue arose between the boys and before we knew it, Mil and I were standing there listening to a running three-way diatribe between our boys, ages nine to thirteen.
I remember wilting somewhat, when suddenly, into my mind popped this old Chinese story. If you tell stories for a living, it can be good and bad: you know lots of stories and that's generally good; but in the family setting, when you puff up and get ready to tell one, it can be bad, especially if you've administered this particular gem of wisdom before and everybody knows it.
Then I had my brainstorm. I walked to the silverware drawer and hoped they'd be there. It was late winter and I hadn't been barbecuing all that much in the snowdrifts outside my door, so there they lay--four thin shish kebob sticks, deluxe toothpicks, really, the sort you use once then throw away because the ends have burnt off.
"Can you break this?" I asked Jon, my eldest. I gave him a short section. He snapped it easily. His other brothers, suddenly very curious, did the same. They stood waiting, knowing something was going on, but unsure what it was. "Easy to break one by itself, isn't it?" I asked.
They nodded.
I bundled a few pieces together and handed them to Gavin, my middle son. "Can you break this?" He tried and couldn't. Chris, my youngest, couldn't either. Jon is very strong and suddenly I saw myself standing there while my thirteen year old snapped the bundle and made a disaster of my lesson, but no, the saints of parenthood were smiling. He couldn't do it either.
I said something about how that bundle of sticks was like our family.
They understood with no further explanation.
All five of us hugged there, in the kitchen, for a minute or so, then went off to do homework.