I've read somewhere that responsibility is caught not taught.
True. Here's the thing: Some of us are led by example. Some have a little mechanism inside them that intrinsically want to help, desire to do what's right. Others thrive on responsibility and actually enjoy it. Not so with my AJ.
He
hates really dislikes work of any kind. And when I ask him to help me fold towels, he throws a fit and claims I had children just so I could have slaves do all the work around the house. (And the envelope please, on behalf of the Academy, Best Male Performance in a Leading Role goes to...)
When I was small and my parents had me helping with dishes or around the farm or in the yard, I spewed the very same words. I thought if they loved me, they wouldn't make me work. I had better things to do with my time. And now I have a child who is much like me, and work is not what I'd prefer to be doing, no matter how much sugar-coating goes onto it, or what cutesy song is sung. So I barrel through work to do it well, and get it done, so I can do other things I'd rather be doing. Like my son, I'm an artist. My imagination is my playground and it's not in me to live to
work. I work to
live.
The reality is that I am grateful that my parents instilled in me a work ethic. I'm not shy of hard physical labor and have dug pools, built fences, pruned orchards, mowed lawns, and slopped pigs to name a few. I've also remodeled bathrooms, laid carpet, planted and weeded a garden, hosted yard sales, worked as a janitor in the dorms in college, and pushed 200 head of cattle across a river on horseback. I still loath doing dishes, but they get done eventually. I still put things off that can wait. Remember the
Laundry Chair? That doesn't mean work ethic has slipped from my value system, but as an adult I can see where all the needs are, and choose to spend my time according to my own values, priorities, and schedule.
But now the hard, miserable chore of teaching my own child how to contribute, and how to pull his own weight. There's so many experts out there claiming when to start chores and what kinds of chores according to a child's age or attention span. A few parents have written articles and blog posts telling that they have discovered the secret to getting their kids to help out without any complaining, and in fact claim their four year old jumps right to it (with a spring in their step and a song on their lips) when she is asked to clean their room. Good for them. That's great. But not my kid. Whatever they have going on is working for them. It doesn't mean it would or could work for us.
One size doesn't fit all.
So, realizing that my AJ is just like me and needed a system tailored to his own personality and bend, I felt he would do best with a checklist. But as free spirit, a pure checklist would be too authoritative and that spells rebellion right there. So, choices should be offered to allow him to have a sense ownership. And as a visual learner, and a pre-reader, he needed graphic images to guide him.
Baring all that in mind, this morning I whipped up this little chore chart for him. The black numbers indicates a daily must-do, no choice. He has to make his bed before he leaves his bedroom each day. The green numbers indicate morning options, the blue for afternoon, and red for evening *if needed.* There are positive consequences if he can manage to do that without me
nagging asking or reminding. If he feels needed, and his labor appreciated, perhaps he'll become more altruistic in his efforts around the house. Perhaps. {sigh}
It's always an experiment, in every step of parenting I feel that risk factor bubbling to the surface in the question of "will this work?" but I hope it builds his confidence once he sees he can do it, and realizes it feels good to contribute. This is one small step in seeking out and doing whatever works for my child because I know him best and I won't give up trying to find the best way to raise him.
But as the stars popped through the darkening heavens, a thrill of energy resonated in the air as we and our fellows in the grass settled in for the show. Finally a whistling missile shot up into the nighttime sky and exploded with a ground-rattling boom, spraying an orb of shimmering magenta bits of fire over us. The boys were hushed, mouths agape, faces that just moments before were reflecting the sunset, were now illuminated by the miriade of colors from the fireworks. Raph sat on my lap in reverent silence while Andres snuggled between Aaron and I shivering at the loudness. We explained to them earlier as we waited for the show to start that this is the day we celebrate our freedom. The loud noises reminded me that as I snuggled with my little ones in the grass for a show, there are countless of mothers in other, far away places where there's war or violent unrest, hearing the same explosive sounds around them for very different reasons. It's hard to grasp when you're almost-6 and 2, or an American all cozy on a lawn on a balmy summer's evening, but the thought jarred me. I shivered at the screaming missiles and thunderous booms, praying for them, those frightened mothers and children in distant lands. And I felt a heavy gratefulness for my life. And some kind of agressive, protective love for the fragile four of us, imperfect and broken, yet so very blessed and rich with love and peace, swept over me as our faces radiated with the passing colors of the glittering heavens above.
