A Problem Of Discipline

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31108, 11 July 1966, Page 2

A Problem Of Discipline

(By MOYRA BIGELOW) When I had three pre-school children in a residential area, landscaped without fences, I lost my appreciation for my neighbour’s horticultural achievements. “Don’t pick any flowers,” became a daily admonishment. This

appalling crime had

been committed once, and must never be repeated.

The vivid tulips nodded and beckoned, begging to be picked, but the children were obedient. Instead, they proudly presented me with armfuls of green foliage. I looked across at the shorn, naked tulips and realised too late that I should have been more specific: “Don’t pick any flowers or leaves.” A little lecture on boundaries and possessions proved to be successful. For days, I was asked to categorise “Ours” and “Theirs” down to the last twig. I was sure the message had been driven home, but one day I found one of my sons and his friend digging a deep hole in the middle of “Their” lawn. I marched the culprits indoors and demanded an explanation. My son pursed his lips and refused to answer. I turned to his friend, who hung his head. “We were digging for gold,” he whispered. There was no shortage of books by expert authorities to help me in my dilemmas. I even received a free booklet in the mail, published and distributed under the auspices of a safety campaign. This excellent little book, Illustrated by cartoons, told the story of a Dodo, a foolish bird, who was pictured constantly bandaged, bruised or

in splints as a result of his carelessness.

He left toys on the stairs, he stepped into the road without looking left or right, he fell in the river, he touched the hot stove . . .' and each page ended with the message: “So never, never be a Dodo.”

My youngest son was enthralled with this manual. He used it as a blueprint for mischief he had not even thought of, and his favourite game became “Being a Dodo.” My self-confidence was undermined, but I felt optimistic that the teachers might succeed where I had failed. My oldest.son, now at school, had developed the habit of scrubbing his nails with commendable diligence every morning.

When I praised him, he paused to explain: “The class is divided into squirrels and bunnies. We have nail inspection, and the bunnies have lost more points than the squirrels. I’m a squirrel,” he added proudly. I felt confident that a lifetime habit was being established. In his second year in school, I was disappointed to see that his nails were long and black. I asked him why he was letting the squirrels down. He looked surprised at my ignorance. “We are not squirrels now and we don’t have nail inspection. We are beavers and chipmunks and we have shoe inspection.” With a blackened finger, he pointed to a gleaming shoe. In his third year, he was convinced that it was pointless to have either clean nails or shiny shoes. Who cared anyway? But he had a pokerstraight back. His teacher made a point of walking behind her pupils and running a ruler lightly down any spine that was bent.

Although he held himself as erect as a Grenadier Guard, I knew that next year would

be the year of the slouch. (At that time, I was unaware that the era of the Beatnik was at hand). My own shortcomings were now highlighted compared with the superb disciplinary powers of my youngest son. Aware of his limitations, he would call out that his shoes needed relacing, and he expected promp attention. He had no qualms about criticising those administering to his needs, and his standards were high. Deftly, he would unlace the shoes with the terse comment that they were "not as tight as each other.” He would decide that an almost invisible scratch needed swift surgical attention. His urgent call for a midnight drink of water had to be answered, and he might haughtily ignore the proffered glass, demanding his “own blue mug.”

Did he care if I had to leave an omlette to burn while I peeled those troublesome protective pieces off a band-aid? Did he sympathise when I crawled from a warm bed at 4 a.m., only to be told that his toe-nails were bothering him and needed to be cut?

But then, did I pause to consider how he felt when ordered to leave a treasure quest because a soft-boiled egg was getting cold? Did we understand each other’s needs and frustrations at all? He lived in a world of thrilling discoveries; smooth stones, reflections in puddles, and dew on spiders’ webs. He had to be moulded to fit into a world of deadlines, hazards, respect for property, manners and cleanliness. The time has come now when the house vibrates with the Rolling Stones instead of the Teddy Bears’ Picnic. There is a surf-board on the lawn instead of a plastic duck in a puddle. A motor scooter, not a tricycle stands blocking the gate.

Life is easier now. Or is It? Yes, I think it is. I know I can muster up sufficient disciplinary resources to get the coal buckets filled, or the lawn mowed.

This is a straight-forward case of attack, resistance, or procrastination. I know I can assess the odds, and handle the situation. But how do you discipline chaps who are digging for gold?