The Willow Glen Resident

Point of View

Deborah Taylor-Hollis

Toys teach mother and son a lesson in responsibility

There are times when being a parent really sucks. When teaching lessons that are important means that you are not only a bad guy, but that you have to challenge some of the "happily ever after" with the cruel realities. You have to enforce the consequences.

Until now, I've tried to avoid some boundaries by not setting them. Don't threaten "no party" when you have to go because you are in charge. I've used timeouts, loss of privilege, leaving early, etc., as punishments to fairly good measure. They have curbed the most outrageous behaviors and made our 5-year-old think a bit once the warning has been given. I have beaten the five-second countdown to death, to the point where my son will finish counting down long after he has stopped the offending behavior.

But I have never, ever had to enforce the most ghastly of all consequences. I have avoided it like plague, knowing that one day I would have to follow through, and it would hurt me far more than it would hurt him.

Nope, I'm not talking about spanking here. That's a pretty easy one. The first time the kid runs out from under your hand into traffic, blind panic takes the old adrenaline along for a fast joyride to swat city, and before you know it, you have paddled the offending behind into respect for the rules. No, I'm talking about throwing out toys.

It's been a long time coming. In the beginning, toys that weren't cleaned up got a timeout--something very painful for one as young as 3 to deal with, but a short-term solution nonetheless. He needed those toys, he loved those toys and he understood the concept. They had to take the punishment once we had tripped over them.

The next phase involved sending the toys "into the closet," a phrase used with such intensity that you were sure Wes Craven was filming something in there. Toys have spent as long as three months in the dark confines of closet solitude, surviving next to the games that live there permanently and only come out with parental supervision. There are 40 separate cherries in the "Heigh Ho Cherry Oh" game, and I have no intention of picking up each one of them daily.

Time, however, marches on, and we have had to take stricter measures. About a year ago, I began to issue the warning, "If these toys aren't picked up right now, they will be thrown out!" That, in the beginning, was enough to send sheer terror into the child, getting about half the room clean before he begged us to help him.

Eventually, I had to go in with the garbage bags, and I knew even then that I should have carried everything right out to the curb. But I caved. I'm a soft touch when it comes to the begging of my baby as he hugs everything in sight against his chest, pleading with me to save his precious toys. I relented. I also felt the tugging of my wallet, a sore point if I took the $400 worth of train parts out to the dustbin. I really didn't want to throw out good toys and blow good money.

But last week was the last straw, and I had to take the final step. I must admit, though, that I fudged a little. Out of all the Lincoln Logs strewn across the floor, the one I grabbed for destruction happened to be broken, and was the perfect candidate for consequences. Over his screams, howls, tears, threats, begging and ominous guttural sounds, I carried out the threat. Passersby were sure he was being tortured. And, in a way, he was.

This was his first lost toy. From the way he carried on, you would have thought I was shooting Old Yeller right in front of him. His panicked dash to the garbage can to thwart me only made my resolve firm, and his disgusted, angry demands continued for quite a while. When he calmed down, he asked if it hurt to go to the garbage, and wondered if the log would be lonesome without him. He wanted to watch the can being emptied the next morning.

It was an emotional night. I felt like a heel. That one piece became the center of a serious change in our relationship. I had tempered the sweet, trusting child, changing his spirit a bit in the process. I wouldn't always be the one who fixed everything anymore. Now, when it comes to his toys, I am suspect. I am the Cruella DeVille of the Lincoln Logs, and can never be fully trusted with all the toys again.

I want your ghost stories. Contact me c/o The Resident with your tales of haunted houses or spirit sightings for my annual Halloween column.

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