![]() [This is a short fictional story that was originally published as part of an educational seminar. It explores the positive influence that teachers can have on the future of their students, and the lesson applies to parents and caregivers as well.] It had been a long and tiring day—the usual case for me as the principal male mathematics teacher in what was then known as a secondary modern school situated in London’s East End. The pupils attending these schools generally majored in manual or artisan courses, what you would nowadays call vocational, rather than academic subjects. Anyway, a group of them had been required to stay back for detention, which was scheduled each Thursday, and went for an hour and a half past the school’s official closing hour of four o’clock in the afternoon. On this particular week, it had fallen to me to supervise them, and I was as peeved as the detainees were at not being able to clock out at four and go home. It was left up to the supervising teacher to provide or suggest activities while they sat at their desks, so we let them do what they wished within reason, as we generally felt no constraint to put in more work hours. The more conscientious teachers would catch up on correspondence and such like, but most of us would usually sit behind the front desk and read the newspaper. With my brain and nerves often being overloaded at this point, I was usually content to do a crossword or stare out of the window. That day, I watched the sunset. Every fifteen minutes or so, however, I dutifully patrolled the gangways between the desks and looked over the students’ shoulders to make sure there was no monkey business going on. That is when I came upon fifteen-year-old Pamela Lumley with her face in her hands and her elbows on an open exercise book. She was a working-class girl from the back streets of Bermondsey and attended my fourth form mathematics class. Her detention was a consequence of having been apprehended for smoking a cigarette in one of the school lavatories. “Is everything alright, Miss Lumley?” I asked her, not expecting an answer nor even wishing to be bothered with one. She looked up at me with snivel nose and red-rimmed eyes; she had evidently been crying. “I just can’t get it, sir,” she whined in her nasal cockney twang. “Get what?” “This…” She pointed a dirty fingernail at her dog-eared, grimy exercise book and the opened pages of smudged, pencil-scrawled numbers bordered with pitiable attempts at patterns and flower sketches. I deciphered that among her fanciful doodling she was attempting to solve a mathematical problem. “It’s ‘omework, sir,” she said, pulling at her teased coal-black hair. Having long given Pamela Lumley up as a lost cause, I hardly even checked her daily work anymore, let alone her “‘omework.” She had only a few more months to go, anyway, and she would leave school; graduating, I judgmentally presumed, to a life on child-welfare benefits. Mathematics, and it seemed almost any other academic skill, was just not her talent. “Well, just keep muddling through, Miss Lumley,” I said and looked at my watch. Over an hour and ten minutes yet to go. Suddenly to her and my surprise, I impulsively snatched up her exercise book and returned to my desk, where I casually flipped through the illegible graphite muddle of Pamela Lumley’s tortured world of mathematics. I stopped at the page on which she had been working. It was still wet on one spot where a tear had fallen, smudging the green guidelines. You may assume it would be easy, considering my eloquence, but I cannot adequately describe what I felt in that instant. It was as though Pamela Lumley’s world opened before my eyes and every painful scratch of her grubby, stubby pencil formed a hieroglyphic tapestry of her life in a Bermondsey backstreet hovel with a divorced distraught mother on prescription drugs. At the time, I would have recoiled from describing what overwhelmed me as supernatural, but now I am convinced it was. I did not know why, but I so wanted to weep that my heart ached, yet Pamela was watching me expectantly from her desk. “I need to step out for a moment,” I announced with a lump in my throat. “M-Miss L-Lumley, will you temporarily monitor the class?” I found myself saying to her shock, as well as that of the rest of the detainees and especially mine. Her face lit up. “Why of course, sir. ” I locked myself in a lavatory stall, sat down and sobbed. I could not understand it, but I felt stupid and vulnerable, yet wonderful at the same time. I must have sat there for about ten minutes, silently philosophizing to myself in an attempt to dissect this emotion. My analysis seemed to be in vain, until I suddenly saw myself as I was before this epiphany: lofty, cynical, wittily sarcastic and erudite with a sophisticated corner on knowledge. It was a discomfiting sight, and it was easy for me to hate myself and—I sadly concluded—for others to regard me with no less abhorrence. Nevertheless, I stepped out of that stall determined to retain this strange throb in my heart. Avoiding my reflection, I washed my face and returned to the classroom. “Did everyone behave, Miss Lumley?” I inquired with a smile. “Oh they was all little darlins!” she chirped with a giggle. “Good to hear it. Okay then, come up here and let’s take a look at this problem.” Pamela’s face fell; it appeared as though she would burst into tears again. Yet she bravely strode up to the front, and I motioned for her to pull up a chair next to mine. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “But it won’t do no good to explain. I just won’t get it.” “The solution is probably very simple,” I said softly. “See this flower you’ve drawn here? What’s it called?” Pamela Lumley’s eyes lit up. “A Canterbury Bell, sir. But that has next to nothing to do with the mathematical problem.” “I know,” I said. “And this here is obviously a crocus.” “Yeah.” “And this one?” “That’s a Bleedin’ Heart, me mam’s favourite. But… ?” “And I notice you’ve drawn this particular one numerous times but you’ve scribbled through it.” “Oh yeah. That’s a Gypsophila, me favourite. Can’t get it right, though. The shape of the petals, see?” I nodded. “Actually sir, I have a hard time with gettin’ the petal shapes right on most of ‘em. The Bleedin’ Heart is easy, of course.” “I’m no artist, mind you,” I said as I opened my desk drawer. I rummaged inside it until I pulled out a small stencil template of geometric shapes. “But it seems the design of this particular petal is based on the trapezoid. See?” “Ooh, right.” “And this one has a rather hexagonal shape to it—you know, six sides. This one of course, is a rhombus—a diamond.” “That’s true, sir. Simple when you look at it like that.” “You obviously love flowers, Miss Lumley.” “I do, sir. Don’t ‘ave any, though. Don’t ‘ave a garden and the ‘ouse is dark.” I turned back a few pages in her exercise book. “Here it seems you are trying to make a design using these two.” “Yeah. Me mam was goin’ to buy me an embroidery kit for me birthday, but it ended up she didn’t ‘ave the moolah. She was right broke up about it. That was fine, I didn’t take it personal. But I was going to embroider a table mat with the Gypsophila intertwining around the Bleedin’ Heart and give it to her for Chrismiss.” “I see.” “Anyways, sir, once I get a job, after I leave school, maybe I can scrape up something.” “Very well, Miss Lumley, you may return to your desk,” I said, noticing that some tittering and whispering was going on among the detainees. I handed her the template. “Here, you can have this. Hope it helps you with your project.” She beamed. “Thank you, sir.” * * * Late July presently came upon us along with the end of the school year and for most of us, spirits were high with anticipation at the six weeks of summer holidays. For the few departing pupils, however, this anticipation was often mixed with some trepidation at the prospect of acquiring full-time employment; Pamela was one of those few. I was locking up my desk on that last day of term, when Pamela tapped on the glass window of the empty classroom’s door. I indicated for her to come in. Tears were in her eyes as she approached me. “Just w-wanted to say bye, sir. And thanks for everything.” Everything? Since that day of detention, I had manifested only discreet interest in her evident progress at sketching flower design by merely nodding my approval when passing by her desk where she, with the geometric template in plain view, would leave her exercise book open for my perusal. But for the occasional smile and a nod, we communicated little. “Good b-bye, Miss Lumley. I wish you all the best and … umm … good luck with your choice of career.” “Ta, sir. Looks like I got something lined up as a cashier at Tesco’s. At least for the time being. It will force me to brush up on me sums, if nothing else!” As we stood in uncomfortable silence, I stared at my half-open briefcase and I could not renege on a decision I had made that morning. I reached into the case, pulled out a large ribbon-wrapped package and handed it to her. “You can open it now, if you wish,” I mumbled. “Or wait until you get home.” Curiosity conquered the girl’s initial hesitation and she tore at the wrapping. Her mouth fell open. “I don’t know why,” I said, as Pamela shook her head and gaped in astonishment at the gift. “But it took no mean courage to stand in the local sewing craft shop explaining my need to purchase an embroidery kit for a ‘friend’!” “But, s-sir. You d-didn’t ‘ave to.” “I suppose not, Miss Lumley. Actually, I bought it that very weekend after your detention, but could never quite muster up the pluck to give it to you. It just sat in this drawer the whole time. Maybe I was tempting circumstance, but I resolved to give it to you today on the one condition that by your own volition you came to wish me farewell. Failing that, I most likely would have posted it to you eventually.” Pamela’s pale, pinched countenance wrinkled and she burst into tears. It was a while before she was able to speak. “Thank you, sir. I shall t-treasure it for life.” * * * The following year, due to a condition regarding the buildup of water around my heart, my doctor advised me to move out of London. Consequently, I took a post as assistant headmaster in a comprehensive school up near Aberdeen, Scotland, where I continued for twenty years until my retirement at sixty-two. A pretty good life stretch, I thought, considering the dire predictions of medical advisors. Anyway, an odd “coincidence” happened on the very day of the end of my term of office in the education administration. I had attended a small gathering to celebrate and toast my “departure” at a nearby pub, where I benefited from, I am happy to say, the sincere appreciation of my teacher colleagues and a number of departed students who had attended my classes within the past decade or more. I was touched to the point that my heart began to hurt much like that day in that East London Secondary Modern School, and I had to excuse myself. Edith Standwell, a younger female colleague graciously drove me home to my one-bedroom flat overlooking the town square. She asked if I needed help, and I hesitated at first—being a confirmed bachelor all my life. Nevertheless, I changed my mind, as I felt compelled to accept her offer and allow her to aid me up the stairs. To my surprise, stuffed in the letterbox was a parcel, and I waited until we were inside my flat before opening it. The parcel contained a small hardcover book and a letter. Concerned for me, Edith Standwell made sure I was comfortably seated in the armchair, and waiting warily by, offered to make some hot cocoa. I accepted her offer, indicated where the ingredients were, and began reading the letter. Dear Sir, This might come as a surprise—it’s been about twenty years I would say since you left our way, and I was thinking that you was probably retiring soon. Well, to be honest, I didn’t even know if you was still alive, pardon me bluntness. Anyways, I went by the old school the other day and I got your address from Mr. Wills, the old geography teacher who’s the headmaster now. Anyways, I wanted to send you a book that just got published about embroidery and flower design, written by yours truly (with lots of help from an editor, of course. Me spelling and grammar still leaves a lot to be desired). Now ain’t that a turn-up for the book world? Pamela Lumley has a bestseller in W. H. Smith’s! Well I do, sir. They even wants another one, but I think I’ve said me piece. Anyways, I put a dedication to you after the title page ‘cos after all, this book wouldn’t have been possible without you. Curious, I took my first look at the book and its title--The Floral World of Pamela Lumley, and I opened to the dedicatory page. As I read, my heart surged again with that wonderful throb and I smiled. …and so it is to him, a mathematics teacher who saw this floral world beyond my clumsy scrawl, I dedicate this little book. Without his encouragement, it would not have been a reality, and to him I am ever grateful. - Pamela Lumley – Story by Jeremy Spencer. © The Family International.
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![]() Love has creative power, and in the home love does its magic by engendering unselfish acts and helping each family member see the others in a positive light. Everyone wants to be understood, accepted, and loved for who he or she is, and the home is a God-created environment where these things can thrive. There are also things that work against love in the home—enemies of love, if you will. Disagreements between children and parents and sibling rivalries are a couple of the obvious ones, but there are other problems that are more subtle and therefore even more dangerous—selfishness, laziness, indifference, criticalness, nagging, taking each other for granted, and thinking and talking negatively about one another, to name a few. These usually begin with small, seemingly innocent incidents—finding excuses to not help out, squabbles over petty issues, little putdowns and sarcastic remarks—but unless you recognize these as attacks on your family’s love and unity, they will develop into bad habits that will take a terrible toll on your family. It’s not enough to simply save the moment by sending the feuding parties to their separate corners, silencing the sarcastic, or pressing the shirker into service. That’s dealing with the symptoms, not the root problem, which is a lack of love. The only thing that will cure a lack of love is love itself, so ask God to bring more love into your home. Then cultivate that love through loving thoughts, words, and actions. *** Children remember things very clearly and are directly affected by their parents’ attitude and how their parents feel and think about them. So if you’re constantly speaking faith and positive things about your child, either to him or to others, and if you’re thinking positive things about your child, this will have a good, faith-building, positive effect on your child, and he’ll become more like what you think of him and expect from him. But if you are thinking or speaking negatively about your child, either directly or indirectly to him, it will have the effect of making him think negatively about himself and hinder his happiness and self-esteem, his performance, and the way he sees himself. Faith begets more faith; positive attitudes foster more positive attitudes in both yourself and those around you. It takes faith in someone to bring out the best in them. © Aurora/The Family International. Used with permission. ![]() An elementary teacher named Mrs. Thompson stood in front of her fifth grade class on the very first day of school and told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top. At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise. Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around.” His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness. Life at home must be a struggle.” His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death had been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.” Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class.” By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to." After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.” A year later, she found a note under her door from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life. Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer—the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D. The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together. They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, "Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.” Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.” - Author Unknown Go with me to a crowded courtroom in a city in the northeastern U.S. A boy about sixteen years of age, who has been accused of stealing an automobile, stands before the judge, awaiting sentence. In a chair nearby, a mother sobs hysterically. An attorney has just testified that the young offender has been a constant nuisance to the community. Previously the chief of police had told how the boy had been arrested on numerous occasions for stealing fruit, breaking windows, and committing other acts of vandalism.
Now the stern, coldeyed judge, glaring over the rims of his spectacles, launches into a bitter tirade against the youth, reminding him of the dire consequences which will result from his lawless acts. Every word from the thinlipped judge is like the crack of a whip, as he mercilessly berates the defendant for his irresponsible conduct. He seems to be searching his vocabulary for the cruelest words he can find with which to humiliate the lad who stands before him. But the boy does not cower before this bitter tonguelashing. His attitude is one of reckless defiance. Not once does he lower his eyes from the face of the judge. With compressed lips and flashing eyes, he glares at his persecutor. When the judge pauses for a moment to let his words take effect, the boy looks him straight in the eye, and from between clenched teeth come the words, “I’m not afraid of you.” An angry flush spreads over the face of the judge as he leans over his desk and snaps out, “I think about the only language you can understand is a six-month sentence in reform school.” “Go ahead and send me to the reform school,” the boy snarls. “See if I care.” The feeling in the courtroom is tense. Spectators look at one another and shake their heads. “That kid is hopeless!” an officer has just remarked. All of the invectives hurled at the boy have served only to stir up a deeper feeling of hatred and resentment in him. The scene is much like that of a lion trainer jabbing at a caged beast with a pointed stick, with every thrust goading the victim to renewed fury. At this point the judge spies among the spectators a young man from a nearby town, the superintendent of The Golden Rule Farm for problem boys. “Mr. Weston,” he says, in a tone of weary resignation, “what do you think of this boy?” The gentleman in question steps forward. He has an air of assurance that immediately commands respect, and a kindly look in his eyes that makes you feel that here is a man who really understands boys. “Judge,” he says quietly, “that boy isn’t really tough. Underneath that bluff of his he is completely and thoroughly frightened and deeply hurt. My belief is that he has never had a chance. Life has been bewildering to him. He has never known a father’s love. He has never had the hand of a friend to guide him. I’d like to see him given a chance to show what he’s really worth.” For a moment the courtroom is quiet. Then the silence is suddenly broken by a stifled sob, not from the mother, but from the boy! The kind, sympathetic words of Mr. Weston have broken him completely. There he stands with shoulders drooped and head bowed, as tears slowly trickle down his cheeks. One kind word has reached the boy’s heart, whereas a half-hour of denunciation had served only to make him the more resentful. The judge coughs to hide his embarrassment and nervously adjusts his spectacles. Then the chief of police, who had testified against the lad, slips from the room, followed by the attorney. After a moment of deliberation, the judge turns to Mr. Weston and says, “If you think you can do anything with the boy, I’ll suspend sentence and turn him over to you.” The conclusion of the story is that the lad was given into Mr. Weston’s charge, and from that time forth he caused no more trouble. The friendly gesture of the man who had come to his defense that day in the courtroom had put his feet on a new path and helped to bring out those finer qualities of character which no one previously thought even existed. —Adapted from Clarence Westphall ![]() You’d be amazed at how often children can surprise you for the better! It can be difficult to understand all their actions—why they seem to deliberately misbehave or act contrary to your expectations. Sometimes it’s near impossible to know what goes on in their little minds, because their actions contradict your instructions or what you perceive as right. You’ll find, though, that despite their naughty behavior, they have good hearts, especially if you’ve given them the right training and taught them to love and care for others. Children don’t see things as grownups do, and that’s something that you should keep in mind when your little one seems to have a knack for getting into trouble. They’re exploring life, so sometimes what seems like an obvious “no” to you, might not be so clear in a child’s mind. They may not have had it explained to them why they shouldn’t touch something, or why they shouldn’t react in a particular manner. Every day is a learning experience for them, and you, their parents, are their instructors; you are teaching them little things today that set the bigger things in place later on in life. It takes love, understanding, faith, and patience to raise a child. You have to see them as what they can be, to take note of the good even when they have a penchant for being troublesome. If you take the time to pour into your children and teach them right from wrong, the fruit of what you sow in their lives will show. Your children may go through difficult times, but if your love and support is constant, and you maintain a good standard with them of what is right and wrong, then it will pay off, even though it may seem to be clouded over for a time. If you keep leading them in the right direction in love, the good will always shine brightly, and perhaps in those moments that you least expect it to. As the proverb says: “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it”. The training you give your children when they are young pays off in the long run. That good will not only manifest itself down the line sometime, but you’ll see the fruits of it every day, if you’ll keep an eye out for it. Don’t jump to conclusions, but see through the eyes of faith and possibility, and your children can amaze you! © TFI. Used with permission.
![]() Charles and Carla Coonradt tell the story of an immense, 19,000-pound whale, Shama, that is taught in Sea World, Florida, to jump 22 feet out of the water and perform tricks. How do you suppose they teach the whale to do that? A typical parenting approach would be to mount a rope at 22 feet high out of the water, and encourage the whale to sail over it. “Jump, whale!” Maybe get a bucket of fish up there, reward the whale when it does the right thing. Set goals! Aim high! And you and I know the whale would stay right where it was. The Coonradts say, “So how do the trainers at Sea World do it? Their number-one priority is to reinforce the behavior that they want repeated—in this case, to get a whale or porpoise to go over the rope. They influence the environment every way they can so that it supports the principle of making sure that the whale can’t fail. They start with the rope below the surface of the water, in a position where the whale can’t help but do what’s expected of it. Every time the whale goes over the rope, it gets positive reinforcement. It gets fed fish, patted, played with, and most important, it gets that reinforcement. “But what happens when the whale goes under the rope? Nothing—no electric shock, no constructive criticism, no developmental feedback, and no warnings in the personnel file. Whales are taught that their negative behavior will not be acknowledged. Positive reinforcement is the cornerstone of that simple principle that produces such spectacular results. And as the whale begins to go over the rope more often than under, the trainers begin to raise the rope. It must be raised slowly enough so that the whale doesn’t starve, either physically or emotionally. “The simple lesson to be learned from the whale trainers is to over-celebrate. Make a big deal out of the good and little stuff that we want consistently. Secondly, under-criticize. Children know when they screw up. What they need is help. If we under-criticize, punish and discipline less than is expected, children will not forget the event and usually will not repeat it.” We need to make it difficult for children to fail, so there can be less criticism and more celebrations. Words for Loved Ones
Claire Nichols I used to struggle more often than I wanted to admit to really enjoy my children. Sure, many little unexpected happenings turned to happy thoughts later--the sorts of things that fond memories are made of--but just as often I seemed to spoil the fun for my children before it had a chance to become a fond memory. But then something happened to help change that. It started one Monday morning. No sooner had my husband gone to work, leaving me home with our two young children, than I found myself counting the hours till he would come home. By then it would almost be the kids' bedtime and things would be easier two-on-two. Morning inched past, and finally it was afternoon. I had hoped to get some work done while the kids took their afternoon naps, but that hope vanished when my youngest, Ella, stayed awake, eager for attention and lively play. When she finally fell asleep, I plopped myself in a nearby chair, but not a moment had passed before my two-and-a-half-year-old son bounced out of bed and up into my lap. "I woke up, Mommy!" he announced as though that were a great accomplishment. "You sure did!" I tried my best to sound positive, while thinking, There goes my afternoon. I guess I really won't be getting anything done today. I looked at my watch. "Two more hours till Daddy's home," I said out loud. "Let's go and get you a snack." Evan stood on a kitchen chair and leaned against the counter as he helped pour milk into his cup. I would have rather done it without his help, but remembered something my mother had recently said. "At this age he wants to do everything himself." "But that's so frustrating for me," I had complained to her. "Even simple things get complicated and take so much longer." "It's for the best," Mom had told me. "Just think of it as education--all the things you go through with the kids that are part of daily life, like brushing teeth, washing hands, dressing, making snacks--it's all brand new to them, something new to learn and experience. Those little things teach them self-sufficiency, character, and style. Remember, you're the teacher and your kids are eager young pupils in the school of life." So I had let Evan help me pour the milk. "There you are," I said as we finished. "And I'd like some bread, please--with jam on it." He knew I couldn't refuse when he asked so politely and cheerfully. I started toward the fridge, but Evan had beaten me there and was already pulling the jam from the fridge shelf. I hope that jar doesn't slip through his little fingers and break, I thought, just as it did! The jam managed to stay in a fairly neat red splatter on the floor, but the broken glass was a different story. It was everywhere, in a hundred pieces. I covered my mouth with my hands to keep the tiredness and frustration from spilling out. "Never do that again!" Evan offered in a sorry and slightly worried tone. I forced my thoughts into a short prayer. Suddenly Mom's words rushed back into my mind--"something new to learn and experience." I swooped up Evan to the safety of my arms. "First we had better get some shoes on your bare feet, then I'm going to show you how to clean up a broken jar of jam." Moments later, as I swept up the mess and Evan held the dustpan ready, I explained to my little pupil the dynamics of glass: how easily it shatters, and the best way to clean it up when it does. Mom's advice was wise. By treating the mishap as a new learning experience for my little one, I felt calm and controlled. Instead of scolding my son and promising myself I'd never make the mistake of letting him get something from the fridge by himself again, I had taught him how to deal with accidents in a positive way. We got another jar of jam from the cupboard, and went on to butter bread and spread jam together, make coffee for mom, and set it all out neatly on the table to enjoy together. That's when I caught myself actually enjoying the moment! "You're such a good cook, Evan!" His little eyes shone. "Mommy is so proud of you!" "Evan is so proud of you, Mommy!" he replied without hesitation. I smiled. Come to think of it, I was proud of myself too. "I think I'll buy another jar of jam and make it a permanent fixture on the kitchen counter," I told Evan, "because enjoying you at this moment is something I want to always remember!" Excerpted from Activated magazine. Used with permission.
I recently heard a story from Stephen Glenn about a famous research scientist who had made several very important medical breakthroughs. He was being interviewed by a newspaper reporter who asked him why he thought he was able to be so much more creative than the average person. What set him so far apart from others?
He responded that, in his opinion, it all came from an experience with his mother that occurred when he was about two years old. He had been trying to remove a bottle of milk from the refrigerator when he lost his grip on the slippery bottle and it fell, spilling its contents all over the kitchen floor—a veritable sea of milk! When his mother came into the kitchen, instead of yelling at him, giving him a lecture, or punishing him, she said, "Robert, what a great and wonderful mess you have made! I have rarely seen such a huge puddle of milk. Well, the damage has already been done. Would you like to get down and play in the milk for a few minutes before we clean it up?" Indeed, he did. After a few minutes, his mother said, "You know, Robert, whenever you make a mess like this, eventually you have to clean it up and restore everything to its proper order. So, how would you like to do that? We could use a sponge, a towel, or a mop. Which do you prefer?" He chose the sponge and together they cleaned up the spilled milk. His mother then said, "You know, what we have here is a failed experiment in how to effectively carry a big milk bottle with two tiny hands. Let’s go out in the back yard and fill the bottle with water and see if you can discover a way to carry it without dropping it." The little boy learned that if he grasped the bottle at the top near the lip with both hands, he could carry it without dropping it. What a wonderful lesson! This renowned scientist then remarked that it was at that moment that he knew he didn’t need to be afraid to make mistakes. Instead, he learned that mistakes were just opportunities for learning something new, which is, after all, what scientific experiments are all about. Even if the experiment doesn’t work, we usually learn something valuable from it. Wouldn’t it be great if all parents would respond the way Robert’s mother responded to him? —Jack Canfield How can we say something is bad if it teaches us lessons of faith or patience or perseverance or love—if the good effect is greater than the bad effect? Almost everything in life has its pros and cons. But if the positive outweighs the negative, then we can and should say that it is a good thing.
There are in fact upsides to most negative situations. When children are discouraged or become negative over something that has happened, try to steer their thinking toward the positive aspects. Following are some stories and songs for children that can help them to learn how to have a positive outlook. Stories: This is Good - http://freekidstories.com/2011/02/23/esto-es-bueno_this-is-good/ God is Good - http://freekidstories.com/2011/06/02/dios-es-bueno-god-is-good/ Grumble Bumble Bee - http://freekidstories.com/2011/03/29/%C2%BFque-aqueja-a-la%C2%A0abeja_-grumble-bumble-bee/ The Oyster Story - http://freekidstories.com/2011/05/07/la-historia-de-la-ostra_-the-oyster-story/ Dunkin the Donkey - http://freekidstories.com/2011/05/26/dunkin/ The River and the Caterpillar - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmBZzuqvLwM&playnext=1&list=PL704EE8AA3B7C2383 Songs: Look on the bright side - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Od9-VI5mj50 Try again - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB_yF0_M660 Have a good laugh - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uA8KmwTqqw Smile - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSrfNIj2RZc Two frogs - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-mtHepPKuU Stay Sweet - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bibY1r-vE-U Positive reinforcement
Praise is a superior motivator. Children thrive on praise. It's more important and more beneficial to praise a child for good behavior than it is to scold for bad behavior. There are times when admonitions and correction are needed, but by learning to preempt problem situations with praise and other positive reinforcement, you will build self-esteem in your children and find yourself less discouraged, exhausted, and frustrated at the end of the day. It's a win-win parenting strategy. The more you focus on the positive, the more things you will find to praise your child for and the less you will have to deal with bad behavior. Praise encourages actions that warrant more praise. Be consistent, be sincere, and be creative—but be believable. For example, if the child tries to do something new with disastrous results, commend the effort, not the outcome. Or if the ill-fated attempt was meant to be a surprise for you, commend the thoughtfulness. Always accentuate the positive, and make the good memorable. 25 Ways to Say “Good Job!” When you vary your words of praise and commendation, it can be more meaningful. “Good job” loses its impact when it’s used repeatedly. Try these alternatives: 1. Good for you. 2. Wow! 3. That’s great. 4. I like the way you did that. 5. Much better. 6. Keep it up. 7. It’s a pleasure to see that. 8. What neat work. 9. This is so special. 10. Terrific! 11. Beautiful! 12. Excellent work. 13. I appreciate your help. 14. Why don’t you show the other kids? 15. Marvelous! 16. Fantastic! 17. Right on. 18. For sure. 19. Sharp! 20. That’s turning out great. 21. How impressive. 22. You’re on the right track. 23. That’s “A plus” work. 24. It looks like you put a lot of work into this. 25. That’s clever. |
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