Years ago, I borrowed a wonderful and highly recommended book from my daughter’s teacher. Ken Lavner was light years beyond a gifted mentor — brilliant, light-hearted, unbudgingly firm, strong and principled. No offense to the many towers of learning here in Santa Clarita, but one of the best things we did was to not scrimp on her education. Waldorf was a private school in that other valley. It was well worth the drive and I was heartened that we weren’t the only parents to refer to it as, “Wal-Dork …”
My daughter was, and is, a dear soul. I could fill endless stacks of yellow legal pads, listing her qualities. Deficits? They’d fill the back of a matchbook cover, writing with an extra-thick Sharpie.
Doesn’t drink enough water and needs to eat more protein. Sorry. That’s it …
Around sixth grade, she began the transition from Little Kidhood to Womankind. My very large and expensive O’Farrell cowboy hat (pictured in mugshot above, taking offers beginning at $175,000) is off to you folks in the Double XX Chromosome demographic. I don’t know how you do it. We guys enter teendom growing beards to go with hysterically funny voices that crack to castrato levels. You girls survive an ordeal going through physical body changes akin to turning into a werewolf, all the while being cute, fetching and irresistible. (Oh. Shameless plug? Speaking of werewolves and books, don’t forget to purchase your copy of the hit 5-star sequel, “Naked Came the Novelist,” at the link below. I don’t really need the extra sales, but mentioning it in a column always drives my editor, Tim Whyte, into a tizzy …)
Anywho.
Mr. Lavner loaned me this book on child rodeoing. I SO wish I remembered the author and title. It was a stimulating and entertaining read. The child psychologist had penned an earlier bestseller on his theories and experiences with raising his first kid and humbly noted he didn’t mind the notoriety of being hailed as a child development wunderkind.
But, in parenting and publishing, alas, a problem arose.
He and his wife welcomed a second bundle o’ joy. He realized not one dented farthing/iota of his airy-fairy liberal hog tripe theory worked on Kiddo Numero Dos.
After much soul-searching, the educator/baby head shrinker admitted his floundering, did more research and went Old School. In a child-rearing technique bordering on heresy, the author turned to the tried and true method of equine training. “Whoa!” means “Stop.” “Giddy-up” means “Go.” “I’ll think about it” was also recommended, although, in all my years in the saddle, I confess, I’ve never used it on a horse. The good doctor discovered what many nice parents have known for millennia. Kids are wired to test boundaries. From kicking inside the womb to climbing out of the crib to, from being a toddler, sprinting hundreds of miles away from you in a crowded mall filled with kidnappers and perverts to announcing, in junior high, their intention to marry a 36-year-old Seaman Recruit in the Coast Guard because they’re in love and love doesn’t have to necessarily make sense. For the latter example, I humbly offer my many, pitiful and tested brother-in-law-like substances.
Kids have a magic weapon with which to bedevil us. It’s the tiny word, “But …”
I’m guessing every parent has fallen into that trap. They issue a sound edict. The kid will stomp, cry, fuss, throw a tantrum, then start their spell with the phantasmagorically powerful spell that starts with, “But …”
And parents fall for it. Head over shoe soles, parents tumble into an argument with the fruit of their monkey business. Somehow, during the emotional conversations, they forget they possess their own powerful weapon and oddly, the most difficult to pronounce in the language of parenting. It’s the noun/adverb — “No.”
Rhymes with, “Whoa.”
In this enlightened new volume of parenting, the author noted use of “No” can be polite. A good steward can be kind enough to offer a firm and logical explanation of their verdict beyond, “Because I said so.” But, after the gavel hits, that’s that. No. Means. No. Whoa. Basta. Stop. “No” is not to be followed with a 47-minute debate because children, like a great writer once noted, can smell fear and weakness like a dog, bee, wife or eighth-grade bully.
Kids test boundaries. They truly want to know where that line is you don’t cross. In many areas of our culture, some parents have bought into the touchy-feely insanity of constantly capitulating and allowing their offspring to wear dyed lettuce to school instead of clothes, especially when the school is equally wishy-washy and points out that if Global Warming were to strike their campus that afternoon, “your child would have something emotionally affirming and non-planet threatening to eat …”
Does that mean a parent need be more psycho control oriented than the state of California? Hm. What’s the word I’m looking for here? Ah. Ah-hah. It’s — “No.” Boundaries. A little tiny toddler might be a hoot and a half, trying on lettuce instead of a San Francisco 49er baby hoodie. But, wearing just lettuce to the Junior Prom? What’s the word? Say it with me. “No.”
I’ve been thinking about all the arguments saved over the years with the kind firmness from the two-word parental instruction manual. Not that confrontation magically ended. I hope my edicts were delivered with common sense, love and good reasons. I hope my daughter respects my efforts. Maybe she does. A college grad now, a dozen years back, she smiled at me, shook her head and said, “Dad. You certainly are formidable.”
Lately, I’ve been contemplating, “Whoa means go” and “No means no.”
Not for any child, but, for me. Funny. At my age? I’m learning that I need to be a loving and strong parent — to myself …
“Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” is on sale at JohnBoston-Books.com. So are other fine books, including his two-part “SCV Monsters” series. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
