The hard way or the easy way

When my three year-old is refusing to brush his teeth, put on pajamas, or anything else we would really like him to do, my husband often gives him one of those choices parents come up with that really isn't a choice at all. He says, "Okay, do you want to do this the hard way or the easy way?"  Which really means, do you want me to do it for you, or do you want to do it yourself? For a wildly independent toddler, "I do it" is almost always a more enticing option.

Almost.

Unless the task is cleaning up toys, taking dishes off the table, or getting off the comfortable couch. Then I hear, "Mommy do it!"  


And from my six year-old, I now hear a very confident, "Hmph." 


(There are moments I look at my used-to-be little boy and stand in amazement of how old he's acting. Then there are moments I look at my used-to-be-little-boy and am horrified by how old he's acting.)

Any surprise? Baking is one of the few jobs for which
 I get very willing volunteers to help clean up. 

For me, the easy way is often to do it by myself. It is so much easier to send the boys outside or to turn on a cartoon, than to request demand that they help. It's faster and much more efficient to clear the table by myself, to wipe up the sink after they brush their teeth, to take care of their coats and shoes, and especially, to pick up a puzzle by myself.  There are countless times a day I ask myself if their help is worth the trouble, and then just quickly do it myself.

But I'm getting really tired of walking into a room and seeing a mess left for me. I'm starting to realize that the messes in my house look more like entitlement and apathy than innocence and oblivion.

So, I've got to be better. I've got to take the time – and teeth-gritting patience – to make my boys do more things the hard way – for me and for them.

And, I've got to realize that the extra time I put in now might just pay off in the future. Even if, as in my experience this morning, taking care of a cereal bowl turns into a lesson in wiping milk off the floor.

This article in The New Yorker on Spoiled Rotten American children convicted me. The author, Elizabeth Kolbert, talks of how kids' "incompetence begets exasperation, which results in still less being asked of them (which leaves them with more time for video games)."  She also mentions that helicopter parents are being joined by snowplow parents – those well-meaning people who attempt to "clear every obstacle from their children's paths."  By helping too much, we end up not helping at all.

Thinking about spoiled kids who have grown used to their parents swooping in also made me contemplate the fact that I'm raising boys who might someday be husbands and the messages they receive about what the women in their lives will just take care of for them.

Like a million other things I never considered before becoming a parent, this is so much harder in practice than it is on paper. And I know realistically there is no way I can ask them to help do everything and still maintain my sanity.  But maybe, if I make an effort to do just a little less each day, they'll do a little more, and I'll be doing us all a favor.

I know that after they go to bed tonight, you will still find me putting away, picking up, and taking care. But we all might sleep a little more soundly if I leave a bit more of the mess for them.