Skip to main content

Raising Kids


I had a strict, Hispanic, Roman Catholic upbringing.  Family came before anyone or anything. Discipline was doled out on a generous, per diem basis, and the status quo was non-negotiable.  It was more like static quo.
I loved (and survived) my upbringing but I decided when I had children I would to do it differently. 
I was still strict, Hispanic, and Roman Catholic, and no one or nothing came before my three children, but I wanted to raise them with less external physical force and more internal self discipline.  They kept me on my toes and I was constantly coming up with rules that were both fair and just. Yes, I did spank them but not as much as they remember (and love to tell the grandkids).  There were a lot of “time outs,” “go to your room,” and the good old standby – groundings.
I took advantage of those many moments when we “liked” each other and were getting along instead of butting heads, rolling eyes, and losing our tempers. I used those moments to discuss, listen, compromise, and come to agreeable solutions.
At the end of my tenure, I wanted them to be strong, independent, and responsible adults.  I wanted to raise kind and compassionate human beings, and I wanted to know that when I was no longer around, they could cope with life on their own.
When we all reached adulthood, I wanted to like them as much as I loved them.

  

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread.   On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.   I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take