Little Studies

The wrist

2008-02-01T22:04:00.000-05:00

It was a “fun” accident.
Little brother trying to beat big sister
to the bathroom for a nightly ritual called “tubby.”

Big Sister Kimberly was a few steps behind when her brother Paul called out, “I’m first.” The challenge was accepted, and Kimberly quickly overtook Paul who tripped at that very moment. Kimberly, who tumbled over Paul, quickly dusted herself off and raced into the bathroom.

Paul got up, did not cry, but said, “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” all the way to the bathroom where the usual game of I’m First was well underway when Gram entered. She noticed that Paul was favoring his left arm, but still there were no tears – not until she declared Kimberly the winner of the first “tubby.” Through the tears of defeat, it became obvious. Paul attempted to remove his clothing without the use of his right hand, and the “ouch” became much more pronounced when Gram tried to remove the shirt.

Meanwhile, feeling a little guilty at winning the race while her brother was lying on the floor, Kimberly relinquished her first-place tubby finish, thereby allowing Paul to get into the tub – where both he and Gram forgot about the arm. He chased his make-believe fishies with his tubby fishing pole, and he splashed and played with abandon.

Kimberly and Paul were spending the night with Gram and Grandpa, so snacks were enjoyed, bedtime stories were told, and the two settled down for their nighttime repose. The next day, however, Gram placed a call to Mom and Dad to warn them that she was taking Paul to have his arm checked and perhaps to expect to see a a cast on the arm when they arrived.

The trip was an adventure for both Paul and Gram. Knowing this was a first experience for Paul, Gram explained that the doctor would not be sticking him with any needles, as had been the case at his most recent routine visit to the doctor’s office. Paul was a little skeptical, but he agreed to don his coat and hat – if he could have ice cream on the return trip.

Gram counted 40 cars in the parking lot , so she feared a long wait – and she was correct. Beyond the waiting room, Paul spied a vending machine. “Do you have any coins?” he asked and was soon enjoying milk. Next, his attention turned to the automatic door. He was more fascinated that it closed all by itself than he was that it opened when a panel was pressed. In fact, he stood guard at the door to warn everyone else get out of the way of the closing door.

Finally it was his turn. Paul had had 90 minutes to listen for his name on the loudspeaker, so he was pleased when his name was announced. The pleasant nurse’s assistant asked him to stand on a scale, one which was made to resemble a large box. He blinked back the tears and said, “Thanks,” when he was asked to step down. Stepping on a scale was one thing, but being asked to roll up a sleeve seemed like the prelude to a needle. Now the tears seemed to be near again as he changed his gratitude to “No, thanks!” However, the assistant showed Paul a photo of her two children, told him he was only here for pictures today, and she immediately won the cooperation of her patient, who said, “Thanks,” for every other procedure, including the taking of his blood pressure and measuring his heart beat. The nice assistant even gave Paul a bag that contained crayons, pictures to color, and a group of stickers, to which he said, “Thanks!”

Gram and Paul returned to the waiting room, and the have-any-coins and watch-out-for-the-door routines were repeated for more than an hour. Now a few ambulances appeared and were parked just outside the waiting room windows. “Look at the trucks,” Paul exclaimed. It took a few minutes and a few other children to convince Paul that the trucks were, indeed, ambulances. Watching the ambulance crews rearranging the articles within the vehicles made the time pass quickly and gave Paul a new perspective on trucks with a particular purpose. His questions were endless.

When the radiology technician appeared to fetch Paul, there was serious resistance and a barrage of “No, thanks,” until the technician said she had a very neat camera to show the youngster. The radiology room was frightening – even to Gram. However, the technician, who was obviously pregnant, was fascinated with a young boy who continued to say, “Thanks,” at every gesture or “No, thanks” when he tried to reject a suggested action. When she asked Paul to put his hand on the table that had just lowered itself more than 12 inches, however, he said, “No, thanks!” He repeated the entreaty every time the technician started to talk, looking plaintively at his grandmother. Gram signaled her cooperation by tying on the lead-lined apron. Paul then agreed to don his apron and to place his hand where the red lines crossed.

The technician moved to her spot behind the wall and said, “OK. When I count backwards from 3, you hold very, very still. Three, two, one … ready.”

At the signal, Paul said, “Cheese,” in his best picture-taking voice, which was just as loud as when Mom would say the same words at picture-taking time. Three times the procedure was repeated, then the aprons were removed, and Paul was sent back to the waiting room.

Now Paul wanted Gram to make good on her pledge. “We need ice cream, Gram,” he tried.

“After we see the doctor,” she replied. The look returned to Paul’s face. It was a mixture of fear and pain. “There will be no needles. The doctor will tell us how you look on the pictures.” The words seemed to comfort Paul as he took his place beside the automatic doors. His attention returned to his bag of crayons and stickers and to a game that he invented on the spot.

Soon, a male nurse greeted Gram and Paul when the latter’s name was again announced over the loudspeaker. “There’s the doctor,” Paul said, as he gripped Gram’s hand a little harder while they followed the nurse to an examining room. “This is the nurse,” Gram said, remembering a day 30 years earlier when Paul’s uncle confused doctors as male and nurses as female in the same manner.

The first doctor to appear, as luck would have it, was a female. She explained that all of the X-rays were clear and that there were no broken bones. She could find no swelling and no obvious injury. Now the questions flowed quickly. Each time Paul ended his answer with, “Could I put on my jacket?” or “Could I get some ice cream?” Finally, he asked, “Could you get the doctor so I could go home?” The doctor, who was obviously accustomed to the gender confusion, said, “I’m going to send in another doctor to discharge you, but I’m a doctor, too.” Paul’s countenance now looked like it does when his big sister teases him; it seemed to say, “Sure you are.”

"Just do one thing for me, Paul," the doctor said. "Touch your nose." Paul touched his nose -- but with his left, uninjured hand. "With the other hand," the doctor persisted.

"No, thanks!" Paul replied. The doctor understood. Pain was not allowing the youngster to comply, but the wrist was not broken -- good news to report to Mom and Dad.

When the arm was wrapped in an ace bandage and the jacket zipper had been zipped, Paul and Gram made their way to the exit. "Thanks!” Paul shouted as the admission assistants said goodbye to the smiling boy. One more time Paul was able to press the plate to open the doors, and one more time he stood in awe as the doors closed without the aid of a human. On his way past the waiting ambulances, Paul found yet another truck with a special purpose – a sandwich and ice cream wagon. To Gram’s complete surprise, Paul said “No, thanks” to her offer of ice cream, “I just want to go home.”

The surprise tooth

2008-01-26T20:19:00.000-05:00

The baby's tooth
popped through
one day before his mother's birthday.

However, Mom was at work, which meant an overnight business trip, so she would not see (read "feel") the new addition to Joseph's grinning smile until she arrived home on her birthday.

"Let's surprise Mom with a party and the tooth," Grammy suggested to two-year-old Paul and four-year-old Kimberly. The suggestion led to creating hand-made birthday cards with pictures of candles and balloons, setting a table with special dishes and napkins, and blowing up a bunch of balloons and shaping them like flowers, flags and dogs.

"We need presents!" Kimberly said.

"We need a cake!" Paul said with the same enthusiasm.

While Paul had fun "undecorating" and then re-decorating his father's uneaten cake from a few days earlier, Kimberly wrapped presents. There were three -- one from Kimberly, one from Paul and one from Joseph. After carefully placing two plants in two party bags and covering them with colored tissue paper, Kimberly wrapped a baby tooth brush and placed it in the third bag as a symbol of the tooth.

She planned that everyone would yell "surprise" a second time as Mom opened the toothbrush and then found the new tooth.

After planning what games could be played at the party, Kimberly organized a practice session for Grandpa, Grammy, Paul and Joseph to hide and then to jump out when she shouted "surprise." She also instructed everyone, "Remember, the last thing is that Mom opens her presents. She will find the toothbrush. We will holler 'surprise' again. She will find the tooth Then the party ends."

Finally the moment arrived. Mom walked through the door. Everyone jumped out as Kimberly shouted, "SURPRISE!" Joseph smiled his "full body smile," but the tooth was too new to be noticed. Kimberly next asked her Mom to bend down, which usually meant she wanted a kiss. "Joseph has a new tooth," Kimberly said in a whisper everyone could hear.

When asked why she had ruined the surprise, Kimberly replied, "I couldn't wait until the end of the party to tell Mom." Four-year-olds: they tell it like it is.

Mary learns "hot"

2007-12-30T17:59:00.000-05:00

There are times that lessons
must be learned through experience …
even when the experience hurts several people.

Take, for example, the recent experience of one petite granddaughter named Mary. Mid-way between ages 1 year and 2 years, doing the usual toddler stuff of singing, staggering, and exploring, Mary has learned to dislike the words “no” and “don’t.” In fact, she can be heard adding “okay” to those commands in anticipation of an additional comment to her answer.

When Mom asks, “Mary, do you want more milk?” Mary is known to say, “No. Okay!”

When Dad asks, “Are you ready for your nap?” Mary will respond, “No. Okay!”

Just before Christmas a cheery fire burned brightly in the family room fireplace while Mary spent her two hours in her crib, sleeping and playing in the late winter afternoon. Just before Mary returned to the family room, Gram turned the gas-powered fireplace off and Dad took Mary from the arms of Mom, kissed his daughter and let her loose.

When placed on the floor, Mary moved very quickly toward the fireplace. Before Dad, Mom or Gram could react, the little lady stumbled on a toy and reached out to brace herself for a fall. The fingers on her right hand made contact with the very hot protective glass in front of the fireplace. The scream from Mary told the adults that the toddler was hurt. The immediate blisters on three fingers and a thumb verified the pain.

After a trip to the hospital emergency room by Mom, Dad, Gram and Mary, it was hard to decide who hurt most. Mom wished she had held Mary a little longer. Dad wished he had warned Gram that the glass was hot. Gram wished she had grabbed Mary when she first stumbled. There was a lot of tension in the room and a lot of self-blame for all of the adults to share.

The tension finally subsided when Dad said, “Well, Mary now knows the meaning of the word ‘hot’ and will probably not say, ‘no, okay’ when I tell her something is hot.” Mary was already happily engaged in playing with her toys and did not seem to mind the bandage that caused her to use her left hand a lot. In addition, the painful experience has caused Mary to avoid the area of the fireplace … and of the kitchen stove. Mom, Dad and Gram still cringe when they recall the experience that taught Mary the meaning of “hot.”

Joe saves the hood

2007-12-18T19:52:00.004-05:00

When do you trust a child to cross the street by himself?
When do you trust a child to apply toothpaste to his toothbrush?
When do you trust a child to leave his bedroom when he awakens in the morning?

Joseph was mature enough to shepherd his younger siblings home from the school bus stop while still in grade school. When he was older, he found his own college, selected his own first car, and we remember distinctly – several times during his formative years – that someone said of Joseph, “Isn’t he a little young for that?” Perhaps it’s because he has four older brothers as models. Perhaps it’s his natural tendency to lead.

At what age would we allow Joseph to mind his younger siblings for half an hour? Well, the tale told here happened when he was in the sixth grade at age 12. Mom selected him to make certain that his younger sister and youngest brother had company on the two-mile walk from the bus stop to home each day. Indeed, it was a “big deal” that Joseph was allowed to open the locked outside door each day because his school bus arrived almost an earlier than that of his older brothers.

Mom usually arrived home about half an hour after the grade school trio, usually to find the three in the kitchen having milk and a snack selected by Joe. One afternoon, when Mom opened the door, she found Joseph kneeling on the stove. Her instinct caused her to yell, “Joe, get down from that stove!”

“I’m holding up the range hood!” Joseph exclaimed.

Not only was Joe keeping the hood from crashing to the stove, but he had already dispatched his siblings for help. “Chrissy is gone to get Mrs. Bartush (a neighbor) and Christopher is in the basement. I told him to shut off the main circuit breaker. I’m glad you’re here, though, Mom, because I can’t hold this thing much longer,” he explained.

Mrs. Bartush, who came running behind Chrissy, and Mom quickly steadied the hood while Joe jumped down from his perch. Then they lowered the hood to the counter as Christopher returned from his appointed task. Christopher was especially happy that the incident ended without an injury because he had climbed onto the counter and had leaned on the hood to steady himself while getting his own drinking glass from the cupboard – an action usually performed by big brother Joe, who could reach without the aid of a chair.

We learned from all of our children when they were ready to be trusted to do responsible things. They never disappointed us.

Brothers’ room

2007-12-11T14:27:00.000-05:00

Chrissy,
number six of seven siblings,
is the only female child in the Little Studies family.

When she was three years old, Chrissy refused to sleep in her designated bedroom. She had been temporarily assigned the bottom bunk in the bedroom with two bunk beds. The other three slots were filled by her 13-, 11-, and 9-year-old brothers. Mom suspected that it was the girl-boy thing for Chrissy … already.

Chrissy had been promised a return to her private bedroom-turned-nursery when her newly arrived baby brother would take up residence with his 7- and 5-year-old brothers in their bedroom. Mom did try moving Chrissy into the younger boys’ room, but she continued to be at her worst each evening.

Chrissy’s brothers seemed comfortable with the story time (or homework), baths and personal hygiene tasks, finding tomorrow’s clothes, dressing for bed, having a snack, settling into bed, lights out.

Still, Mom’s concern about the girl-boy thing returned. (See Nov. 7, “Girls are different” post.)

Dad, who never believed in escalating a small problem into a family catastrophe, counseled Mom to ignore Chrissy’s bedtime demeanor. Thinking it was an attention-getting device, Dad allowed Chrissy a later bed time than her roommates. He and Mom used the extra time to re-read her favorite stories.

It did not work.

Nothing worked.

When the story time ended, the fussing began in earnest … every night. Dad resorted to walking around the living room holding Chrissy in his arms until she fell asleep.

One evening, Dad moved his sleeping daughter to the bedroom just a little too early. His daughter was not quite asleep. The fussing began again. Dad, completely exasperated, asked, “Tell me, why don’t you want to go to bed?”

“The brothers smell like feet!” she retorted.

When he returned to the living room, Dad told Mom, “Relax. It’s not the girl-boy thing. It’s the sneaker thing.” The laundry hamper and the boys’ sneakers found a new home in the bathroom, and Chrissy joined the rest of the family in enjoying the bedtime routine.

Mom cried, Gram cried

2007-12-08T20:39:00.000-05:00

“I’m sorry!
I’m sorry!
I’m really, really sorry!”

The words were spoken by Bill, who had just turned 8, when he did not finish the food on his plate at dinner. He had never before expressed such obvious distress when he did not finish eating.

Bill was known within the Little Studies family for his ability to move peas (or other unwanted vegetables) around his dinner platter for hours on end. A family one-liner often repeated was that the only thing Bill ate warm was ice cream.

When food was passed around the table, family style, the children were allowed to skip one item – and only one. It went without saying that everything placed on one’s plate had to be eaten.

This particular evening, when Mom saw Bill still sitting at the table when everyone else had been excused to do homework, instead of scolding Bill, she simply burst into tears, which caused the mea culpa from Bill. Mom quietly dried her tears, removed Bill’s plate with its contents, gave Bill a hug and told him he was excused. Bill was really confused by his mother’s actions, but he went to his room and finished his home work in record time.

Later Mom explained the incident to Dad, saying that she was fearful that she might have hurt Bill’s psyche by crying over his unfinished meal. She explained that Bill’s plate filled with peas was simply the proverbial last straw during a trying day of disciplinary actions involving his older brothers.

“Don’t worry,” Dad comforted his wife. “Perhaps your tears will have a better effect on Bill than any of his past scoldings or time-outs in the corner.” Then Dad told Mom this story:

I think I must have been about 8 years old myself when I ran into the kitchen with such energy that the outside door hit the wall behind it with a loud bang. The door also knocked over Mom’s plant tray and broke the container holding her favorite African violet plant. I remember expecting a whack with her barber’s strap. Instead, she burst into tears. I never again entered the house without thinking of how I had hurt Mom and caused her to cry. You can bet that I never again barged into the house with a bang – at least I don’t think I did.

Mom’s tears had much the same effect on Bill that Gram’s tears had had on her son. Mom and Dad both noticed that Bill was seldom the last person asking for permission to leave the dinner table.

Pensive Grandmother

2007-12-03T18:17:00.000-05:00

Enjoy the wishing,
the planning and the designing,
because the reality signals the end of all three.

Mom interrupted Gram’s thoughts that autumn afternoon when she found Gram rocking slowly back and forth in her favorite rocker, which was the only item from the old kitchen that made its way into this brand-new one.

For years Gram had been reading every newspaper article that concerned itself with kitchens in any way. She could discuss the newest gadgets, the latest improvements in appliances, and the design and placement of counters and cabinets.

For months she worked with a kitchen design group deciding which windows to replace, which doors to close off, and which wall coverings would work best.

For weeks she did without conveniences while the carpenters, plumbers and electricians turned her 1940’s kitchen into a model of the 1970’s.

The coal stove that had stood in the very first kitchen had been replaced by an electric range in the 1950’s. Now there was a smooth cooking surface with all of its heating elements hidden from sight. Also in the cooking area the newest kitchen appliance – a microwave oven – found a home beneath the walnut wood cabinets, which replaced the white, painted-many-times cupboards.

Once an ice box kept foods cool on the back porch. Now the back porch was closed off, containing an automatic washer and dryer, which were just hidden from sight behind the designer brick wall that dominated the kitchen; and a brand new refrigerator replaced the 1950’s, must-be-manually-defrosted model, which had replaced the ice box many years prior.

The kitchen table, the heart of Gram’s home, had once been part of a formal dining room, which a recent remodeling project had converted into the family television room. This table was very special. Sitting around the rectangle, many memories were made at special occasions through the years – birthdays, anniversaries, Thanksgivings, Christmases, welcome home celebrations, engagement dinners – as its expansion leaves were added to accommodate her growing family. Originally, Gram had designed a round table into her dream kitchen. When she discovered that her dining room favorite did indeed fit into the center of the new kitchen, sentiment won out over modern design.

The new kitchen, the result of years of hoping and planning, was now a reality, but Gram seemed pensive rather than happy. When Mom inquired, Gram said, “It is no longer any fun to read about new appliances or new kitchen designs. I’ve been sitting and rocking and thinking about how special it was to have a dream. I should have enjoyed the planning a little more.”

Words of wisdom, certainly, which Mom has carried with her for decades, which helped her revel in the planning of many of her own special projects – planning for the arrival of a child, wishing for a new car, moving to a new community, expanding a business, looking for a new job, preparing for a college graduation or a wedding, and designing her own building projects.

Gram's birthday present

2007-11-13T18:28:00.000-05:00

The value of money.
Son Number Five

“Tell your Mom what you did!”
The familiar tone of Gram’s voice meant bad news would follow.
“I took Gram’s birthday money,” the almost-five-year-old stammered.

Mom, who was retrieving her brood after returning from the weekly grocery-shopping trip, spoke next. “Oh, Number Five Son, why did you take Gram’s birthday money?” she asked.
“I bought candy at the corner store,” he said, causing Mom’s memory to flash back to an earlier year when a piggy bank had been violated.

“He doesn’t realize his wrongdoing,” Mom’s thought “… or does he?” After all, the youngster had removed 15 of the 75 dollar bills that had been taped together as a 75th birthday present for Gram. Then he neatly tucked the pile of bills back in the dining room table's drawer.

Gram interrupted Mom’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, Mom. we have already visited Mr. and Mrs. Kopko’s corner store, my house and yours. He has a new understanding about sharing and ownership.”

Mom, obviously relieved, asked Joseph why he had taken the money without telling anyone.
“I didn’t want Chrissy to know about the money,” he said, referring to his next youngest sibling.

Ownership, sharing … concepts and virtues … must be taught, Mom thought. Children are definitely a lump of clay to be molded into shape. Once again that evening, Dad began the process of teaching another son why taking someone else’s “stuff” was wrong.

Money in the compost

2007-11-12T16:36:00.000-05:00

The value of money
Son Number Three

Mom did it many times on payday.
Wages times number of hours worked,
minus all deductions always equaled net pay.

When each employee’s net pay had been calculated, Mom would use a bank template to figure out how many 20’s, 10’s, 5’s, 1’s, along with the exact coins were needed to pay everyone with cash, the preferred payroll method 40 years ago.

Then Mom would next create a pay envelope for each employee, writing the individual calculations for each. She would write a check for the total net payroll, visit the bank and cash the check. The bank teller would count out the correct number of each denomination of bills and coins. Then she would return to the kitchen table, lay out the cash in neat piles, and fill each envelope.

Normally when the last envelope had been filled, there would be no currency left on the table. It was a zero-sum activity.

One payday, however, there was not enough money to fill the final envelope. It was three 20’s short. Mom called the bank teller who had helped her that morning. “I’m three 20’s short,” she explained.

“Oh, we counted those 20’s twice. I think you should check each envelope again,” the teller said. Mom acted upon the suggestion.

When all of the envelopes proved to be correct, Mom wrote another check for $60, took it to the same teller and asked, “If you prove to be $60 over in your cash drawer tonight, will you call me?”

The teller called that evening to say that her cash drawer was neither short nor over. This was not good news for Mom, but she accepted the fact and thanked the teller.

Less than two weeks later Gram was looking out of the kitchen window into the Little Studies back yard. She saw Son Number Three digging near the compost pile. Because he spent only a few minutes at the activity, she said nothing to him or to his parents. However, one week later, she saw him back at the same spot, digging again. This time she mentioned Number Three Son’s activities to Dad, who paid a quick visit to the compost pile.

Much to Dad’s surprise, when he turned over the first pitch-fork of compost, United States currency floated to his feet – two 20’s, one 10 and several dollar bills. It did not take long for Dad and Mom to put $60 and $53 in their proper context.

“Number Three Son,” Dad summoned. The almost-five-year-old came running through the garden with Mom, who had just returned home. “What did you do with the other money?” Dad demanded.

“I bought candy at the corner store,” he said, causing Mom’s memory to flash back to an earlier day when Gram’s birthday money had been confiscated.

The proud look on her son’s face brought Mom to different conclusions.
“He doesn’t realize his wrongdoing… or does he?”

“Why did you spend my money?” Mom asked.
“I was sharing with you,
Mom.”
“Why did you hide the change in the compost?”
“I didn’t want Bill to
know about the money,” he said, referring to his next youngest sibling.

This time it was Dad who took his Number Three Son on the familiar route of corner store, Gram’s house and the Little Studies home. Once again that evening, Dad began the process of teaching another son why taking someone else’s “stuff” was wrong.

Piggy Bank

2007-11-11T22:01:00.000-05:00

The value of money.
Son Number One

Is it mine?
When is it okay to share?
How does a youngster learn about ownership?

When the oldest Little Studies child became a big brother to two younger children, he was taught how to cross the street on which the family lived. Then he could visit the both the playground and the neighborhood corner store.

Run by an elderly couple, the corner store in the Little Studies neighborhood was filled with all of the daily foodstuffs that would supply a family in between weekly trips to the supermarket … bread, milk and eggs, for example. However, the best part of the store to neighborhood children was its candy counter, filled with penny and nickel candies of every description.

Child No. 1’s learning to cross the street coincided with Mom’s desire to save silver coins. She set a tiny, ceramic piggy bank on the highest shelf in the kitchen and dropped in silver dimes as she found them in Dad’s pockets on laundry day. The pig grew heavier and heavier.

Many months later, Mom picked up the piggy bank. She found, to her surprise, that she was holding one-half of the pig in her hand. The other half held only four dimes. The clean break between the bank’s halves, she realized, made it easy to move one-half of the ceramic pig, remove some coins, and then put the piggy bank back together.

“Number One Son,” she shouted, “come to the kitchen!”

When the almost-five-year-old appeared, he saw his Mother standing on a chair waving fractured pig in her hand. “Did you take the money from this pig?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” the boy stated proudly. “I bought candy at the corner store.”
Mom could not believe she was raising a thief … her first thought.
Mom needed to punish immediately … her second thought.
Mom needed Dad’s intervention … her third.

The proud look on Number One Son's face brought Mom to different conclusions. “He doesn’t realize his wrongdoing … or does he?” After all, the youngster had put the bank back together after removing the coins.

“How did you reach the piggy?” she asked aloud.
“I climbed the ladder,” he said, referring to spice shelves on the cupboard’s end.
“Why did you put the piggy back together?”
“Because I didn’t want to give Johnny [his younger brother] any money.”
“Why did you take my money?” Mom continued.
As his countenance went from pride to confusion, Mom knew she had work to do.
“Did you know that the dimes were mine?” from Mom.
“Yes … well, no … well, yes and no. I knew you would share with me,” he said.

Number One Son had often had lessons on sharing. “It’s mine!” being shouted from the play area was always the signal to Mom and to Dad to teach the many ways in which two youngsters could divide their possessions. This morning Mom decided that the oldest child in the Little Studies Family had mixed ownership with sharing.

Mom wasted no time in teaching her son about ownership. She gave the first installment by taking Number One Son back to the corner store and explaining that everything in the store belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Camero. The shopkeepers also confirmed Mom’s suspicion that her son had made many, many trips to buy candy with shiny dimes. Next they visited Gram’s house where Mom explained that everything in the building belonged to Gram. Then they looked into each room in the Little Studies house. While everything belonged to Mom and Dad, Mom reminded Number One Son that in this household everyone shares.

That evening Dad began Lesson Two … why it is wrong to take someone else’s “stuff.” However, it remained a Little Studies mystery regarding the internal motivations regarding Number One Son replacing the piggy bank’s back end each time he had removed a coin … until the next child decided to take someone else’s money.

The end of television?

2007-11-09T17:28:00.000-05:00

While we were not looking,
time arrived sooner than expected;
all seven children were now enrolled in school.

When the family moved into a new residence that required a cable installation for television viewing, Mom and Dad agreed not to install a cable … at least not for a while. There were too many situation comedies that were disrespectful to authority … school authority, parents, even law enforcement.

Extra books were purchased. A few new board games were placed on the shelves. A brand new contingent of footballs, basketballs, and volleyballs were placed in the play area.

Mom and Dad felt all was well … until the late November evening they pulled their car into the driveway expecting to see lights in every bedroom during study time. In fact, the entire house was dark. The now-worried parents, returning early from Parents Night at school, moved into the house at record speed.

As they walked hurriedly through the downstairs rooms, they could hear the sounds of scampering feet and hushed voices on the second floor. When they reached the top of the staircase, Mom and Dad found all seven children in the largest bedroom and each looked “like the cat that had swallowed the canary.”

It didn’t take many questions to learn that the children had run a series of metal coat hangers from Dad’s discarded television set to the wrought iron railing on the outside balcony. The hangers acted as both a ground wire and an aerial and allowed a very fuzzy, black-and-white reception of Scooby Doo. The older boys had concocted the idea, implemented the installation, and had sworn the younger family members to silence … in return for their audience participation.

Dad did allow the group to view another hour of so-called television programming that evening, and he listened to an argument he had not heard previously. Everyone at school talked about television, and the Little Studies children felt left out. The fact was that Dad also felt left out of some new programming and many sports events.

Mom ordered the cable installation the following day, and Dad drew up a new list of television viewing rules, built around sharing and negotiating the number of hours that could be spent watching the tube.

A television rule

2007-11-07T15:52:00.000-05:00

Do children watch too much TV?
Rather, how much television is too much?
The Little Studies Family had a television rule when their children were pre-schoolers.

The rule was – very little television viewing for the kids. Usually TV was turned on for Sesame Street and turned off one hour later when Mr. Rogers sang his farewell. Saying goodbye to the Rogers’ Neighborhood also signaled afternoon naptime.

Mom and Dad were not in complete agreement on the rule, however, because so many children’s articles were beginning to appear in parenting magazines, both pro and con television viewing by youngsters. In addition, Dad wanted his boys to enjoy physical activities, like running and throwing a ball outdoors.

If the truth be told, Mom also enjoyed knowing where her boys were during the hour that they watched television each day. With the growing family of five sons, she wanted to relax the television viewing rule to include a few additional programs.

One day, two-year-old William helped Mom’s argument with a surprising question. As he sat in his high chair near the breakfast table, Bill chanted, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” while Mom sat nursing baby George close by.

Dad, who had been serving up toast and juice to go with the corn flakes, recognized William’s repeated plea for attention, saying, “Yes, Bill. What do you want?”

Does c-o-r-n-f-l-a-k-e-s spell “kkkorrrrnnnnnnnn ffaaaaalakes,” he emphasized, as each sound brought mealtime conversations to complete silence among his 8, 6, and 4-year-old siblings.

Mom and Dad remained speechless. Just then, Gram appeared and Bill repeated his question for her. “I guess it’s Sesame Street in action,” she said.

Dad held his ground on daily television viewing but added one new permission – “This Sunday you can watch the Steelers … or the Eagles.”

Girls are different

2007-11-06T09:29:00.000-05:00

How long would it take to know she is different?
Mom worried that our only girl would not readily develop her femininity.
But Mother Nature put everyone at ease when Chrissy was almost two years old.

Mom and Dad considered themselves a part of a “modern day.” Women were equal to men, especially when wages and promotions were discussed. Men could make the coffee; women could work at manual labor.

“Will she ever realize she is different?” Mom asked Gram as the latter rocked Chrissy to sleep while singing and humming Brahms’ Lullaby.

“Don’t worry. She already knows,” Gram said. She was right.

Each of the boys had a favorite stuffed animal to take to bed. The animals doubled as weapons during pillow fight time, or when someone felt the urge to knock a smaller sibling off balance. It was not unusual for Mom to open the bedroom door to see some stuffing flying through the air behind one of the toys named Cat, Bear, Rabbit, Teddy, and Frog.

Red-and-blue Cat had only one eye; gram had sewed the opening closed so Cat looked as though it were winking at the world. Brown, fuzzy Bear had long ago lost its tail, and Gram had sewed that opening to keep the stuffing inside. Formerly white Rabbit had turned gray, and gray Teddy sported ketchup stains and bright, unidentifiable spots. Only Frog still looked like its original self, probably because its owner was three years old.

Chrissy’s bedtime companion was a cuddly doll named Sherl, which seemed to be a combination of the words “she” and “girl” to the twenty-month-old toddler. Following her brothers’ habits, she always looked for Sherl when bed time was announced. Mom and Dad cannot remember a time when Sherl was involved in the good-natured tug-of-wars or pillow … er, animal … fights that erupted on occasion.

In fact, one afternoon, as Gram was getting ready to rock Chrissy to sleep, she found that her granddaughter had assembled the group of bed-time animals … not for a boxing match or a basketball toss, but rather for a session of tender, loving care. Chrissy had placed Cat, Bear, Rabbit, Teddy and Frog on Gram’s rocker. With one hand she was holding Sherl close, while her other hand was moving the rocker back and forth to her own version of Brahms’ Lullaby.

Standing in the corner

2007-11-05T12:52:00.000-05:00

Two-year-old George reminded us that discipline is love.
Mom thought about her recent conversation with Aunt Jeanie
in which she had been extolling George’s always-smiling personality.

She recalled one incident that may have helped form George’s behavior: Just as Dad’s hand was about to make contact with his son Paul’s backside, he stopped his open palm in mid-stroke. He was trying to teach the little guy that violence was not allowed in his household.

“How does a child get a message that fighting and hitting are not good actions if I am hitting him?” he would often say. Instead of spanking, Dad took him by the shoulders, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “I’m so disappointed. Give me your hand.” When Paul put his hand out, Dad tapped it ever so slightly and said, “Now, go to that corner and think about what I said. When you are ready to tell me and your brother that you are sorry, let me know.”

Paul looked a little confused, yet somewhat relieved, as he marched to the designated corner. Meanwhile, John, the brother who was still crying in pain, was picked up, hugged and sent to find his Mom. It took about five minutes. Six-year-old PD finally repented,
“Sorry, Daddy.”
“For what?” Dad asked
“For hitting John.”
“Will you do it again?”
“No.”
“Find your brother, give him a hug, and tell him you will not hit him again,” Dad said as he hugged Paul.

Of course, there were additional incidents in which both John and Paul found themselves in that corner. Sometimes contrition came quickly, sometimes not. Never again, however, did Dad administer any corporal punishment … just the meaningful tap on a palm with the words of disappointment.

One summer evening, two-year-old George climbed onto Dad’s lap for story time. His two older brothers lingered in the bathtub to play. “Why don’t you like me, Dad?” George asked. While the word “love” was not in George’s sentence, it was obvious that George was missing the feeling. Dad hugged George close and said, “Georgie, I like you. In fact, I love you very, very much. Why do you think I don’t like you?”
In a few sentences that are burned into our memories, Mom and Dad heard George say, “You put Paul in the corner (the word was pronounced “kona,” because r’s were not yet forming for him.) “You put John in the kona, but you ‘neva, neva, neva put me in the kona.”

While Mom was thinking, Dad was acting. He put George down, asked for his hand, gave him the honorary tap, and said, “For thinking that I don’t like you, stand in that corner until you can give me a hug.”

George, with the smile returning to his face, marched to the corner, stood for 15 seconds, turned and said, “Sowwy, Daddy,” then ran to Dad’s waiting arms for the hug that was always the end of the punishment.

Boys to men, girls to women

2007-10-31T22:37:00.000-04:00

Boys to men, girls to women.
Sometimes we only remember our children as boys and girls...
then, in an instant, we see them as they really are: men and women.

Sometimes these truths are brought to us in simple ways, like an unexpected e-mail from a son.

Having been among a small group of invited guests, our son and his wife attended a Music Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony in which his high school music teacher was honored.

"I have to tell you", son wrote , " it was a very interesting evening with a strange mixture of flashbacks, feelings of how school has not changed much and looking forward to when we will be attending some of Mary’s functions." Mary is our two-year-old granddaughter.

He went on to write, "It was a nice night, which allowed me to reflect on that part of my life … a part of my life I have spent very little time thinking about. It brought a smile to my face remembering high school and college, the friends, the trips, the band camps, the troubles we shared and the things we did for which we never got caught.”

Did these reflections indicate a yearning for years gone by or a wish to live in the good old days? He ended his letter this way:

"The biggest smile came when I thought about these influences, how they have shaped my life and how incredibly grateful I am they are over. It is nice to visit the past and reflect on how events shaped me, but I wouldn’t trade my present life for any past events. I have a great wife, a wonderful daughter and a pretty cool family overall, even if the brothers do sometimes smell like feet. . .

The description "brothers smell like feet" came from a little sister in a discussion with her mother many, many years ago...before they all became men and women.

Learning to undress

2007-10-30T14:45:00.000-04:00

Mark that calendar ...
Kimberly can undress herself.
Today she removed her sleepwear and opened a side of her disposable diaper.

Normally, Gram "makes hurray" for each tiny achievement on the developmental trail; however, this a.m. ... at approximately 7:45 ... she was not clapping. Well, yes, Gram did hear cooing sounds and baby chatter on the baby monitor around 7:30, but she ignored them, deciding she needed a few more moments of sleep to cope with her toddler while Mom and Dad were on vacation.

Just to be sure that the baby was okay, barefooted Gram quietly pushed open the nursery door 15 minutes later to peek at Kimberly.

She discovered a budding "Rembrandt" at work!

Kimberly was having a lovely time "painting" the brown stuff she had found in her half-way-off diaper ... painting it on everything in sight, including her arms, her cheeks, her hair and her half-exposed belly. Her sleepwear lay in a neat bundle outside the crib where they had been tossed.

The night-time temperature had fallen about 20 degrees cooler than the night before, so along with the surprise experienced by Gram came the thought that the baby might be cold. She grabbed the handiest item ... yesterday's "camel" towel that had been draped on the rocker ... and scooped Kimberly into her arms, just as the diaper and what remained of its contents dropped to the floor.

Holly, Kimberly's dog, knowing it was time for breakfast, gobbled up the iky brown stuff, as well as a healthy chunk of the diaper itself. Before Gram could utter a sound, Holly gave the brown stuff back ... along with yesterday's dinner ... in a tidy pile at Gram's feet ... just as Gram was stepping into the very same spot of the deposit.

Kimberly, now sitting in the center of the room on her "camel towel," would never remember the fun she was having, clapping and cooing and trying to talk to 'olly, while watching Gram hopping around the bedroom. Nor will she remember why Gram had to give her a "tubbie" so early in the day.

Holly spent all of this time running from the nursery to the gated stairs and back again, still seeming uncomfortable. However, Gram was occupied with the process of washing and disinfecting everything that is normally in the crib ... dollies, stuffed animals, plastic teething ring, last night’s sippy cup ... yes, even the nightlight ... to say nothing of the blanket, crib rails, crib sheet and mattress pad.

In the middle of the sanitizing process, Gram wondered ... was it really 7:30 when she rolled over to snooze or had it been 6:30? No tiny piece of humanity could have done so much in the short space of 15 minutes, she thought.

Needless to say, Holly was in quite a hurry when Gram finally opened the rear door to let him answer his own call from Mother Nature.

I want to be with my family

2007-10-24T21:28:00.000-04:00

I was so pleased last night
when my two year-old granddaughter Kimberly
demonstrated her understanding of a concept dear to my heart.

Her parents were watching the NASCAR telecast on their big-screen television downstairs in the recreation room as I finished up some genealogy work on my computer, also downstairs. I offered to take Kimberly to her bed so that they could enjoy the race without the constant chattering that she now does.

Kimberly and I went upstairs, where she gathered her "dolly", but refused to go past the steps leading downstairs. She was near tears as I tried to convince her to take the "dolly" to bed with her. She lowered her head and with her eyes looking up at me, she softly said to me "I want to be with my family".

Of course, the only thing I could do after that is return her to her "family".

Toilet training and McQueen

2007-10-24T14:39:00.000-04:00

It was time …
all of the new mothers’ books said so …
it was time for potty training (toilet training, we Baby Boomers had called it.)

While most of the mothering websites and Dr. Spock-type reading materials seemed to agree that 24 to 36 months of age usually meant that baby-turned-toddler was ready, there is no consensus regarding the “how to” part of the process. Advice came from every direction … from other Twenty-First Century moms, from New Age mothers, from Generation Xers, from old Hippy moms, from us Boomers, and from all of their male partners … not to mention from television shows, from radio spots, and from the internet.

Not-so-new Mom had already trained her four-year-old daughter by using a neighbor’s advice. When Elizabeth was 2.5 years old, Mom would encourage her to make the poopy (probably should have said bowel movement, based on good advice) in the potty so that she would get a call from Blue, the puppet star on the children’s television hit, Blue’s Clues.

In addition, Elizabeth would get an ice cream treat from Dad each day in which she made a successful deposit. By the way, Dad also doubled as Blue's voice when the call was placed each day.

Now it was time for Donald to follow suit. Because he had little interest in Blue's Clues, Mom told her precocious toddler that he would have his Hershey's Ice Cream Sandwich and receive a phone call from Lightening McQueen, the rookie race car driver from Donald's favorite video, Cars.

Then Mom went to work, knowing that it was time for the “heavy lifting” that every mothers-of-toddlers website, magazine, soft-covered book, and text advised. Mom must prepare to devote weeks … or months … again, depending on the source of the advice, to help her child accomplish the feat.

The potty chairs were placed on each floor of the house, in the play area, and in the nursery. Donald was allowed to practice removing his own pants, as Big Sister demonstrated during the staging rehearsal. His old-fashioned diapers gave way to pull-ups, which could be removed by Donald himself.

Finally it happened. There was the prized poopy in the playroom potty; Mom had already grabbed the camera, and Donald dutifully, though modestly, posed pointing at the potty.

Then came the big moment: A call from Lightening McQueen himself.

Donald was summoned to the phone to be congratulated by Lightening McQueen, his hero. Dad, using his best imitation of Lightening McQueen, heaped much praise on Donald for his potty accomplishments, telling him how proud and happy Lightening McQueen was to hear that Donald had achieved such success.

When finished, Donald handed the phone back to Mom, saying, “Mommy, you made a mistake. You called Daddy. I want McQueen.”

We like you just the way you are

1978-01-29T18:06:00.000-05:00

Last week, we writers
of Little Studies were the proud parents of five sons,
today, we are the proud parents of five sons and one daughter.

Many of the Little Studies articles during the past year have been reflections of the events in the lives of those five boys – ages 9, 7, 5, 3, and 1.

We ask the indulgence of our readers this week as we use this Little Studies column to talk directly to those children.

Since our first-born child was a son, we have been asked constantly whether we now want a daughter. Our answer has always been the same and has always been honest. It didn’t matter. We would be happy with either. We could never be unhappy with a new baby because of the baby’s sex.

As we held each of you for the first time and as we look at you now, we feel the pride and joy of being your parents. Each of you is a person to us – a very special person.

Of course, it is natural for all of us to make comparisons – one of you is taller; one is younger; one is brighter; one is faster; one is more mannerly; one is prettier; one is more pleasant; one is more gentle; one is a boy; one is a girl.

We want you to know that none of these differences can ever mean that any of you is different in the amount of love you will receive from us. Each one of you is “the most” to us. You are the most precious. You are the most loved. You are the most favored. In other words, to borrow an expression from Fred Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, “We like you just the way you are.”