p. 14 | The Child in the Home by Laura Spencer Porter

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 21, 1915

The Child in the Home

By Laura Spencer Porter

THERE is a great deal said about making the home suitable and happy for the child; too little said of the child’s share in molding the home to suitability and happiness.

Home is primarily, or should be, a place of “caring and sharing,” but one would think we had forgotten all that. I have visited in homes which could hardly be called homes at all, so much were they nurseries, houses in which all serious and important adult thought, conversation, speculation, and mutual adult service to the world were rendered practically impossible by the overwhelming preponderance of the child’s demands on the attention.

I recall such a household in which the visit of a distinguished guest, which would have been an honor to any home, was forgone because Tommy, aged three, was accustomed to be taken by his mother to the zoological gardens at that time. “It is an appointment I never break,” said his mother regretfully, “and as Mr. S—— can come only on that day, I am afraid it is my duty to give up the pleasure of his visit. I do not undervalue the honor it would be; but there are things greater still. The trust and confidence of a little child ——” and so on, and on.

Useless to point out the lack of judgment; useless to note the higher privileges of which both the child and the mother were in this manner robbed; the young mother was an ardent student and upholder of “children’s rights.”

In contrast to this is another home, in which the idea of parental authority is upheld as uncompromisingly. The mother in this case is the one in whom such authority is vested. I have seen some of her children’s most cherished desires vanish away at the mere raising of her eyebrows. Her little boy, scrupulously trained to reply to her with respect and promptness, “Yes, mother,” “No, mother,” never speaks of her out of her presence save as “she”—as if there were only one of her power in the world: “If she says so, I’ve got to do it;” or, “No, she won’t let me.”

In these cases—and they are types of many more—it would be useless to discuss the child’s place in the home, since here, obviously, is no home. For a home is never an autocratic government, never a despotism; whether of parent or child, it admits of no tyranny. It is a republic, in which the rights of all are equally sacred.

In this republic of the home the child has, indeed, very definite rights. His home is not merely his nursery, established to minister to his wants; nor is it merely a place of schooling, in which he is to be molded; it is his country. Here he has his possessions, as the citizen has his possessions in the commonwealth. Here, too, he should have his tasks, his responsibilities, and his privileges.

Possessions, tasks, responsibilities, and privileges—these he shall have; and it is further important that he have them in as equal a degree as possible; for if he have them in unequal degree, the very foundations of the republic—and of the home—are threatened. If he have, for instance, possessions and privileges far in excess of his tasks and responsibilities, he constitutes a privileged class, as it were; and in the ideal republic there is no privileged class. Or, conversely, if he have a preponderance of tasks and responsibilities, and an insufficiency of possessions and privileges, he represents an oppressed class, lacking freedom; and such classes are not compatible with the ideals of either the true republic or the home.

The Child’s Possessions

What shall be the child’s possessions in the republic of the home? “A room of his own”—we are familiar enough with that plea. Of course, a room of his own, if possible; for it undoubtedly fosters a child’s self-respect and his respect for the property and rights of others, to have property of his own. He should have bookshelves, a table, a treasure closet, a workbench, a playroom—some place distinctly his own, suited to his particular tastes.

But besides the child’s material possessions in the home, he must be given some of the spiritual possessions as well; he must have a definite share in upholding the ideals of the home. He must know and feel its cheer, its kindness, its warmth, its sympathy, and its honor. He must know that these are a part of his home, and that they are in a deep sense his.

The Child’s Tasks

When it comes to the child’s tasks in his home, they must in each case be adapted to his needs and temperament. They should be sufficiently serious to interest him; not sufficiently heavy to discourage. They should invariably be tasks of service, something to render the home more pleasant, more cheery, more homelike. Many children have as little share in making and establishing the interests of the home as paying guests have in the management of a hotel. Everything is run for the child’s benefit; every pleasure, every comfort, comes to his hand ready-made.

If you will note how much more pleasure a boy takes in an open fire for which he himself has gathered and brought in the wood, you will see what I mean. I know a delightful little girl who, once a week, bakes a batch of ginger cookies for Sunday supper. Now Sunday supper is one of the most delightful and homelike things about that particular home. Nearly always there are guests, and always there is an air of festivity. The little girl’s task is a definite contribution to that homelikeness and festivity. She showed me with shy pride not long ago the following lines written in her autograph book by one who is a frequent and distinguished guest at her home, “Edgemere:”—

“One thing at ‘Edgemere’ does my soul delight— ’Tis Margery’s cookies of a Sunday night.”

It seems a little thing, I know, but behind it lies all Margery’s pride and delight in “Edgemere,” in its warmth, its brightness, and its hospitality. This is her home, and her little diligent hands have helped to make some of its loveliness.

The Child’s Responsibilities

With responsibilities—the child’s responsibilities in the home—we come at once to something spiritual. There are, of course, the more material responsibilities, such as neatness, punctuality, and the like, things without which the comfort and harmony of the home cannot be maintained; but in the main the child’s responsibilities in the home are responsibilities of the spirit. He is to be fair, just, honorable, truthful, unselfish. If he neglects these, the beauty and harmony of his home are harmed or its peace destroyed.

I remember hearing a delightful old French nurse say to a tempestuous little

boy who was in a temper: “Dear heart, let me close the door! Let not the old, quiet, well-behaved rooms hear! Here have I lived since your grandfather’s time—nor ever heard aught but gentle speech. What will the rooms think, dear heart? What will the old home think? So gentle a home,—and such behavior in it!”

He was only a little boy, but I believe he got a sense of the integrity of the home, its gentleness and kindness and high behavior, its good breeding and loveliness, against which his own violent temper showed in ugly contrast.

The Child’s Privileges

As to the child’s privileges in the home, these should include all legitimate enjoyments. There should be the privilege of pleasure, of companionship, of quiet hours, the sharing of joys and sorrows, and leisure for gentle entertainment of many kinds.

Love of home can never, I think, be taught by precept. It should never be said to a child, “You should love home,” or, “You have a good home and kind parents, and you ought to be thankful.” I remember my mother returning from a journey, and saying, as she looked about at us all in the firelight of the old homelike sitting room, “Oh, it is so good, so good to be home again!” That taught me more love of home than a thousand admonitions. Of course it was good! Indeed, yes! Were we not all there together? Was it not a home of warmth and kindness and hospitality and charm, where many found comfort and understanding?

A Place of Caring

Home is a place where people care, and where they always care more for each other than for themselves. This is the ideal of home which should be fulfilling itself before the child every day of his life, and in which he should feel himself to have a definite share. He, also, must care more for others than for himself, if this ideal is to be maintained.

Yet how many of us depart far from such an ideal! Perhaps we are very good managers and housekeepers. Perhaps our houses are run like clockwork for the benefit of our children, and yet have about them nothing more ideal and inspiring than have clocks.

A Place of Sharing

The home is a place of sharing; it is a place of entertainment of guests, let the entertainment be however humble; it is a place of sympathy and hospitality and understanding. But many of these houses which we call homes are so full of the petty fret and noise of daily living that they have little leisure for guests or hospitality. The child sees too often that the coming of a guest is cause for anxiety, sometimes for regret. Too often it is a matter of regret to the child himself.

“Oh, bother!” said a little boy I know, who has never enjoyed the privilege of a real home, “shall I have to give up my room? I don’t want to.”

In contrast to this I recall a little girl of long ago who stood on tiptoe to whisper into a sympathetic ear, “O aunty, mother says Cousin Ethel is coming; and mother says I may let her have my room!” I was a little girl, only about seven, I think, but mine was the hospitality and sharing that day; and as I sat waiting in my best frock for the occasion, I knew delightedly, without wordy definition, down in the bottom of my expectant and hospitable soul, what home meant.

The frequent use of the words “we” and “our” is of help in doing away with egotism, personal selfishness, and special privilege. The assigning of helpful tasks to the child—tasks which shall add definitely to the charm and comfort of the entire household; to plan definitely with the child for the arrival and entertainment of guests; training in habits of punctuality, neatness, gentleness of speech and manner—all these are helpful; but it must be remembered that home, though it includes all these, is yet more, far more than them all. It is an entirely spiritual and ideal thing. It is not the form, but the perfume of the flower; not the body, but the soul of the house.

Never were houses themselves better than they are today; never so convenient; never so sanitary. But in many a house nowadays I have missed that spiritual soul of kindness; I have found lacking that mutual love, that mutual reverence, that mutual service and desire for larger life, which give a house the air and loveliness and true spirit of home.

A real home is not a place of mere material comfort; it is a wholly spiritual ideal. The child’s own relation to the home is an entirely spiritual thing. Here is an ideal government, a republic to which it is his privilege to be devoted and loyal. Here shall he be neither despot nor slave; but with the other members of that home he shall be equal in his rights, proud in his privileges and possessions, eager in his responsibilities, happy in his tasks.

This ideal of home it is the part of all of us to establish for our children in so far as we can, allowing the child himself the stimulating and ennobling privilege of doing his share to bring about so high an ideal.—Laura Spencer Porter, in The Mother’s Magazine.