”Laura, if you use that word one more time, I’ll hang up,” I told my irritated, teen-aged daughter who had just dropped the “F-Bomb.” I will not tolerate that language from my daughter. Hardly pausing after my ultimatum, Laura used the word again, intentionally frustrating my direction and my authority.
“I told you what I’d do if you said that word,” I said, “Good-bye, Laura. Call me when you can use civilized language.” I hung up the phone and waited for it to ring again, but it never did.
Parental frustrations evolve as our children grow, but they remain an irritating thorn under our skin.
“Why do I bother?” I asked Dad one day after I had reached my limit. “Why don’t I just talk to the walls? At least I know they won’t listen or do what I say. It’d save me tons of aggravation.”
“Just be patient,” Dad smiled. “Sometime when you least expect it, you’ll hear your words come from their mouths. Then you’ll know that it was worth all the effort.”
Laura outgrew this frustrating stage, and I included her in as many family activities as I could. At a birthday party in Shawnee Mission Park, she sat on a bench and watched over preverbal Ian as he and Nathan, her son, joined an impromptu play group. All the boys were scampering fearlessly around and over the playground equipment when one of the other boys said the
“F” word. Laura, in full Mommy mode, stood up.
“I don’t think we need to use words like that,” Laura told the boy. “If you do that again, we’ll have to leave.” The little boy stammered his apologies and the play resumed with appropriate language.
“You were right again, Dad,” I thought, as my chest swelled with pride.
Bill Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.