If you’ve ever watched “American Idol” you know that watching the people who can’t sing is almost as entertaining as watching those who can. Delusional, would-be stars who get in front of the judges and warble some horribly off-key tune, believing they are great, only to have their dreams killed. I always wonder who let them get up there and sing. Did some parent encourage them to actually do this? Does that parent’s love blind them to their child’s abilities to the point where they can’t see what’s real? Or, have they just never learned how to tell their child the truth?
As a parent, when your children are very young, you are programmed to lavish them with praise. I think it’s part of the DNA code. You cheer wildly when they take their first wobbly steps, whooping as if they’d just won the Olympics. Or when they go to the potty for the first time. Or, yes, even when they sing “Old MacDonald” in an adorably off-key way. It’s your job to provide an overabundance of cheerful enthusiasm for all of life’s successes, no matter how small they may be. However, at some point as parents don’t we owe it to our children to take off the rose-colored glasses and start being honest with them about their abilities? Or is it our job to be constant champions no matter what?
This is my current struggle. In my case, I have found the process of being truthful with my eight-year-old son, Luke, is not as easy as simply telling the truth. Part of the problem is, well, Luke thinks he’s great. At everything. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the fact that he’s confident. But, it does make pointing out the areas that need improvement a challenge simply because there’s a certain amount of disbelief on his part that he’s not great already. Thus, the phrase “it stinks” has become a common motivational technique in our house.
I didn’t start out with the intention of being blunt or brutal in my assessment of my child. It’s just the way things evolved. It could be that I created the monster. Like most parents, during pre-school and Kindergarten I oo’d and ahh’d at every piece of paper he brought home. Every picture was a masterpiece. Every letter or number learned, proof of his inherent genius. It continued on through first grade, but as his abilities increased and he showed a fairly strong aptitude for school, my expectations increased. By second grade, I was ready to be honest. Initially I tried to be gentle in my critiques. “Luke, do you think you did your best with these sentences?” I’d ask, in regards to some homework assignment. Which is when I learned I had apparently given birth to Vinnie Barbarino.
“What?” he’d reply.
“These sentences. Did you do your best?”
“Where?”
“Here. On your homework.”
“When?”
“Now! I want you to re-do this homework!”
“Who?”
“YOU! THIS STINKS! RE-DO IT!” [Read more...]
