Saturday, August 28, 2010

Kids Don't Learn Respect . . . Unless You Teach Them

Manners Kids Crayon Pictures, Images and Photos

I remember back then when my brothers and sisters and I were young. We could be a wild bunch at times,the five of us, but that was only allowed inside our own home. When our parents took us to visit we were warned way in advance to quell the rising fear of . . . Oh my God! Ciro and Marian are coming with the five kids!!
One Aunt in particular, my mother's older sister Aunt Mary, was pretty well to do and had a house that looked like a museum. It stayed that way even with her three children living there, thanks to her diligence and fanaticism. There was a long four cushioned sofa against one wall in her living room, just long enough to seat five children and that's where we were forewarned to sit and mind our manners . . . or else! And we did just that until compassion overtook her and she bought us cookies . . . but WATCH the crumbs! Why were we so obediently mild-mannered on family outings, you might ask? Because we knew with certainty that my mother meant business when she said "This is not our house. Do NOT embarrass me!"
When I had my own five children and they were small, I passed on the warning too. Behind the issue of embarrassment was the greater core of Italian-American family life . . . RESPECT! You respect your elders, your parents, your teachers . . . and last but not least . . . YOURSELF. My children knew very clearly what was expected of them from early on. No, they weren't perfect, but they learned respect. I remember my young son Brendan's astonishment when a schoolmate who came to our house one afternoon, walked right up to the refrigerator, opened the door, and grabbed something to eat for himself. Before I could say anything, my seven year old said "What are you doing?" The boy replied nonchalantly, "Getting something to eat, why?" And Brendan sternly said in his little gruff voice, "You better put that back. This isn't your house and you didn't ask!" The boy turned around and saw me standing with my arms folded and sheepishly returned his booty back to the fridge. Then Brendan said, "Mom, I think Adam's hungry." I asked the boy if he'd like something to eat and he shyly shook his head yes and I fixed them both something nice to eat. Adam started smiling again. The next time he came to our home he remembered that we don't starve hungry children here and all he had to do was ask.
Another time, a different friend came over and used the bathroom. When he came out, Brendan was next in line to use it. He walked in and ran right out pulling his friend back into the toilet in a panic. The boy had peed all over the seat and decorated the wall also and just walked out. I heard my son warn him that if his Dad came home and saw that mess he'd be very angry and he won't let you play here again. And then he added, "You have to aim inside the bowl in our house."

It's called . . . Respect. It's called . . . I CARE!

Allowing and encouraging children to grow and explore their world is a task that does not come without responsibility. Respect for oneself and others begins at a very young age, but those values taught and supported through childhood continue throughout one's life. Children need boundaries and when they're in new and unfamiliar places they need to know what these boundaries are. Do unto others as you would have them do to you is a wise lesson to learn early in life.
Children can't grow up alone or in households where no one ever has time for them. They learn respect from their parents first. It all goes back to the beginning. Kids need to play and have fun, to be free and be loved. It's not about restricting their good times. It is about learning how to live, give, and share the world around us and discover what joy means.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

What Child Is This?

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Our new grandson was born a few weeks ago and christened William Albert, named after both his grandfathers. Every week his little face changes and draws such attention from everyone in the family. When he was born, the resemblance to his father was striking. Now he looks like his mother's Dad.

William's birth was a long time coming, conceived after five trying years of countless "almosts" and tests and then finally . . . the invitro that secured his place in the world of the living! Such longing, waiting . . . hoping for this child to be born and at every stage in utero another concern to address: my daughter's blood disease, her asthma, two painful needles every day stuck in her belly. Yet, little Will continued to thrive and grow within my daughter's womb, and each sonogram painted a promise . . . this child is perfect.

At his Christening, the tender words of Deacon Pat fell like the baptismal waters upon his tiny head, as he anointed William with holy oil and claimed him for Christ. This sleepy Babe, adorned in white, the scent of newborn clinging still, was slowly roused by loving sighs of all who watched and smiled at him.

I began to hear an ancient echo in my heart, "What child is this?"
He is his parents' child, yet he belongs to all of us who promised to be a caring part of his life. He is of our clan, one of us. Our heritage, our stories, our memories and hope are all within his every cell. He is our future. William Albert is the new life in our family . . . full of wonder and possibility.

And I felt for one small moment what those who came to the Stable one night long ago must have felt as they gazed upon that Newborn Babe in wonder. "What child is this . . . so filled with light? What child is this . . . who brings such joy, such hope?"

I know now for certain that each new child born into this world brings a promise and a blessing for mankind . . . and it rings through the universe. . God still believes in us!

Joanne Cucinello 2008

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Sharing Spaces

sharing spaces
I was thinking this morning how things have changed for children in today's society.
When did the notion start that kids had to have their own rooms? This certainly is far from what exists in many other countries and also in many parts of our own. But nevertheless, it seems as though it's just expected that in these days parents who can afford to buy a home, look for one with as many bedrooms as their number of children.

I remember growing up having to share my bed with my sisters . . . let alone my room, which wasn't MY room anyway, but ours! My two brothers shared a room too. We were five kids and two parents . . . and one bathroom. When I think of it! The line outside the door sometimes grew very loud with hurry ups and threats, some of which I won't mention. Getting ready for school and taking care of personal needs while someone else is banging on the door presented its own set of challenges, while trying to find your own clothes in a closet shared by three girls was yet another. I'm not talking about a walk-in either! I'm thinking that these circumstances might have been a reason for kids leaving home much earlier than they do today.

When I got married and we began our family, the same numbers were replicated . . . five kids and two parents. The first thing we did when we moved into our four bedroom home was add another full bathroom and we even had a half bath extra to boot. Our three girls were still small at that time, but I wasn't waiting. My memories of teenage years pushed me to get ready for that primal female energy to resurface once again when my own daughters became teens. And god, did it ever!!! Still, they had to share one bedroom for a long time. When our oldest girl's asthma became really troublesome, we moved her into her own room. Yet, there were many nights we'd find her sisters and brothers with blankets and pillows, sleeping on her bedroom floor! I guess there remains a special comfort on stormy nights for children to snuggle up together and feel safe. Pillows and fluffy blankets shared seem to always calm the soul.

But as time goes on, things change, needs change and we all get caught up in one way or another to strive for bigger and better things. It stands to reason that the more we own, the more space we need and that seems to be one of the problems. The need for privacy and independence is another. But how much and how soon? I guess there is a certain status we unconsciously or consciously aspire to in this world where achievement is honored . . . and expected. I just wonder why for so many it has to begin so early in life, when childhood only lasts for just a moment and I wonder too . . . just how much better off as a people we really are.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

The Clothesline

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I wrote this poem one windy autumn day
20 years ago, when I still used clothespins!
Perhaps it will stir some of your own fond memories . . .

The Clothesline

From my window
it’s a comical sight, even musical
the way the wind plays posie
with my wardrobe hanging there.
Today, shirtsleeves wave to me
and flutter high and low
now and then
when wind swirls toss the trees
appearing
to be raising arms in unison
like graceful rows of Muslims
praising God . . .
they make their bows to Allah.

A merry sight, this autumn day
despite the fact that
folding clothes
will occupy my time tonight.
I still find viewing them delightful.
Never mind
that I’ll be picking bits of leaves
and twigs
from playful sweaters
woolen socks and sheets.

It’s sweet nostalgia
come to visit me today
bringing me to Brooklyn streets
and brownstones with their backyard lines
childhood thoughts of neighbors
hanging wash
tattle tales and peekaboos
hung dripping on the line.
Minny’s see-through underwear
and Bobby’s holey socks
Alice wears a bra now . . .
and you don’t!

Soon the winds will grow too cold
for hanging clothes
but still . . .
I might just do it one day, anyhow
just to see
the frozen stiffs come off the line
remembering
the laughter in our kitchen then
when Mother pulled them one by one
hard and cold
through the window . . .
clothesbodies
waiting to lie down
on toasty radiators
and dream away defrosting.
And I waiting too
to sniff the crisp winter’s air
that floated through that place
filling little heads with happy memories
times too easily forgotten
in a world gone electric.

Joanne Cucinello
1988