As you know, my brother Tim and his family are visiting. My sister-in-law, we’ll call her Lynn, is European and sometimes her European ways don’t jive with us siblings especially when it comes to child rearing.

Lynn’s upbringing was very comme si comme sa until education came into play. Our upbringing, however, was more structured with bits of the Montessori method sprinkled here and there for color. Reflecting on my childhood, I’m immensely grateful for my parents dedication to shaping and encouraging us both academically and artistically (though there are times when our sanity is questionable, Pam).

Like anyone with Southern blood in their veins, we were taught to mind our tongues in public and certainly no “showing out” which I think goes hand and hand with our healthy respect for older people and authority.

You see, in our home, my parent’s door was never closed and we were never chastised or told our opinions were wrong. On the contrary, we were taught to debate and defend our opinions to the death, and change if our manner of thinking was wrong.

Hmmm, using reason to shape your kids opinions works much better than calling them damned fools. Who knew!?

Our daily schedules never felt like a hard line schedule. We had set bedtimes and curfews as we grew older. Fridays we’d go out to dinner or had company over, Saturday mornings were spent cleaning the house, and Sundays we’d terrorizing one another or watch my dad’s minor league baseball team play.

I understand my parents. It couldn’t have been easy transporting a horde of kids from continent to continent without loosing one of us either mentally or physically, although my mom did forget to pick up Stan from KinderCare—poor kid—it was after eight o’clock before anyone missed him.

Lynn’s summation of our childhood makes the Holocaust look like the Teddy Bears' Picnic. I don’t think we were oppressed, were we? I believe our upbringing made us self–reliant and conscious of how our actions affect people around us as well as the way we’re perceived. Example of a convo I had with my mom when I was in the 4th grade.

Me: I’m pissed!! *rants nastily about a trivial St. Patrick’s Day debacle with Sandra Gibson, classmate*

Mom: Is that really what you want to say to her? If she were to repeat what you said, how will others look at you? Is that the way you want to be seen?

Me: *sad* No.

Mom: Then you need to think before you speak. It’s not what you say but how you say it. Get your point across but don’t act common. You’re Black, people expect you to be ignorant. Show them differently.

My mom took ten minutes out of her life and gave me advice that’s remained with me. Had she not, how different would I be today? With the being said, Lynn feels we’re too orderly. Case in point, BC must count his toys when he takes them out and puts them away. And she finds his bath time routine unbearable. Gasp!!...BC has to lift a finger!

Yes, BC counts his toys and puts them away by himself. This form of torture has helped him learn his numbers, taught him to pick up his own crap, and it builds his retention skills. At any given time, BC can tell you where his toys are located and, should he want to play, he can get them. As far bath time, I learned this trick from my mom, its called responsibility. Read on…


These suckers last forever!

BC has two bath time baskets:
Blue/Green, for night baths contains PJs & undies, shampoo, wash towel, drying towel, soap, and lotion.
 
Orange/red, for morning baths contains his robe, undies, shampoo, wash towel, drying towel, soap, lotion, and a comb.

When bath time rolls around, BC goes to his room, grabs the appropriate basket, and heads to the bathroom. Afterwards, he takes the basket, dirty clothes, and wet towel to his room where he puts his clothes and wet towel in “BC’s Laundry” basket…gets dressed…puts his laundry basket outside his bedroom door so Zora can collect it before she goes to bed. It’s also his responsibility to tell Zora when he’s low on products because he’s responsible for replenishing them. BC loves these little chores we give him. I suppose it makes him feel like a big boy.

Our latest means of terror comes in the form of allowing him to mix his eggs. He can’t cook them, of course, but he mixes them in a bowl, puts it on the counter, and let’s one of us when he’s ready. You should see the tip of his tongue poking between his lips when he’s stirring…such concentration! “I can do it myself” should be his motto.

The rearing of the boys has always been a bone of contention between Tim and Lynn. I’d like to side with Lynn because I think her heart is in the right place but Tim’s logic is—well, logic. There’s NO reason a nine year old should lack the capacity to make his own sandwich and fold clothes. Hell, we were washing dishes and cars by the age of six and the floors weren’t going to sweep themselves! How are children expected to learn responsibility and accountability when they’re not responsible or accountable for anything? We can preach til we’re blue in the face—but the bottom line is children learn what they live.

Maybe one day we’ll gaze upon our parental prowess with horror and shame, but I doubt it. Eva’s an amazing person, and my precious Clinton leaves me speechless. Well, I’ve bored you long enough. I’m off to bed.


This is the longest blog post ever!


Remember the little pink kitchens we grew up with? Well here's a market stand. I fell in love with it...now Greg and my dad have to make one for BC. He has the clubhouse but I can't wait to see what he does with his market. Thanks Kerstin! :D