Hair of the dog: 'my kids don't listen to me'

 

The concept is simple and straightforward: you do something naughty, your parents tell you to knock it off, and you avoid doing it again. Unfortunately, Isabella and Mendel believe the best response to trouble is more trouble. As in, when your mother tells you to stop hurting your brother, you look her straight in the eye while you elbow him at least three more times. I guess at our house it’s always opposite day. Nothing like a little hair of the dog, kid-style.

The question is: are they not hearing us right, or are we saying it wrong? How often in one day’s time do I tell my children to stop what they’re doing, and is there a critical point after which they just stop listening? Maybe I need to reassess my battles, and pick more carefully.

Time for a little experiment, I think. What if, for the next few hours, I bite my tongue every time I want to tell them ‘stop’? What if I worry about myself, and let them solve their own problems for a change? Unless, of course, one of them is actually in danger of getting hurt, in which case I may stop my experiment. I have the sneaking suspicion that I could very easily let a whole lot of stuff go, and no one would be the wiser.

I ignore the fact that my daughter refuses to change out of her bathing suit. I don’t nag my son about leaving his art supplies all over the living room floor, even though I’d like to vacuum. When he starts ripping up the pictures that aren’t ‘good enough’, I don’t stop him. I don’t tell either of them to stop talking when I try to watch the evening news. When I leave the room, I neglect to warn them to stay away from the computer. Guess what, they don’t so much as glance at it.

During the rest of the day, it becomes abundantly clear that much of what comes out of my mouth doesn’t need to be said. Censuring myself is hard work, which makes me realize I may talk a lot, and say very little. Oh-my-god, am I a nag?

Just as I’m taking a good hard look at myself, I hear my daughter yell at my son. I can’t hear what it’s about, but she sounds annoyed. Next, he starts yelling: “Mom! Isabella’s bothering me!”
“Well, he’s bothering me,” she responds, then walks into the living room and kicks over his latest Lego building.

“Go to your room if he bugs you that much,” I say. She doesn’t like that. Rather than going to her room, she stays downstairs and continues to bait him. When I don’t respond, she does walk up the stairs to spend some time by herself. Mendel, in the meantime, repairs his building, muttering softly under his breath. Pretty soon, the house is quiet, and I repress the urge to tell my son to stay downstairs. He’s going to have to figure out for himself that sometimes it’s best to keep your distance, and let the big sister cool down.

Maybe I should do the same.