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Managing Children

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Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Apr 18, 1871

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 37, No. 18.

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Managing Children.

Our children are our mirrors. If we would know ourselves, we have but to study them. They give back a true reflection. Can there be a sadder sight than the one so often seen, of a worn and anxious mother, scolding, and shouting up, and whipping, aye, and praying over, her bright, wayward child; when, were she but to turn a clear look, unblinded by self-love, inward, she could see that almost, if not quite all, which causes her so much anxiety and annoyance, and her child so many punishments, is her own fault. But children are not mere reflections. They have inquisitive little minds, and warm little hearts, and if we, through weariness or thoughtlessness, withhold information from the one, or sympathy from the other, they are genuine sufferers.
I was once visiting a home, of which a dear little girl was the light. One afternoon, she was crying quietly. Her mother’s conversation was interspersed with, “Hush, I tell you,” “Stop crying,” “Do hush,” “I’ll send you off by yourself.” “Hush.”
“Mother, what ails the little girl?” I asked at last.
“Nothing at all; she is just a naughty little girl, and I shall have to punish her. I’ve let her bring all her playthings into the parlor, and isn’t she bad to annoy and mortify me so?”
But that little, low, half-suppressed, sobbing cry, and those great, round tear-drops, told another story, and I asked:
“May I talk to her?”
“Certainly, I wish you would.”
“Come here, darling,” I said, and taking her on my knee, kissed her. “What is the trouble, my little pet?”
“I does n’t means to be bad. I does n’t wants to plague mamma; but Dolly is very sick, and I can’t get nobody to do nothing for her.”
“Bring dolly to me.” Feeling her pulse, “Why, she is in a high fever; bring me some paper, and I will make her some powders. There are three powders, all folded up nicely; now bring me a baby cup and a tiny spoon. I’ve filled it with air mixture, and you must give her a teaspoonful every time she cries. Now undress her, and rub her with a flannel, and then rock her to sleep.”
The little girl was happy and singing all the afternoon, occasionally bringing Dolly to me, to see how she was, which I enjoyed as much as the child did. At night, she kissed me again and again, with, “I does love you.”
“But the child was crying for nothing.”
I beg your pardon; the child was crying for love and sympathy, just what you and I cry for, even yet.
“But her troubles are imaginary.”
So are most of yours and mine; yet we bore all our friends and weary God with them.
Children not only imitate our faults, and suffer by our carelessness, but govern us through our weaknesses. A friend came to visit me, and brought a generous, frank, and manly boy, of four years old. But he disturbed our whole circle by his constant crying. This habit was not in keeping with the brave, proud, independent character of the child. I therefore felt a curiosity to find the cause. My first discovery was, he never shed a tear.
His mother wished to take a trip, but could not take her boy.
“Leave him with me.”
“He’ll torment the life out of you.”
“I do n’t think so.”
“I will, indeed, be most grateful. You may whip him as often as you please.”
“I should not strike a child, except in a most extreme case.”
“Then you can do nothing with him.”
She was gone. The next morning after breakfast Willie asked:
“May I go and play in the yard?”
“It rained last night, and it’s too damp now. You may go at ten, not before.”
“Boo, whoo, whoo,” rest. I kept quietly sewing. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” bass. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” tenor. I sewed on. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” double bass. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” falsetto—rest.
“Now may I go?”
“You may go at ten o’clock.”
Concert repeated—I silently sewing the while.
“Ain’t your head most ready to split?”
“No.”
“May n’t I go out now?”
“Not until ten o’clock.”
Concert resumed; rest.
“Ain’t you most crazy?”
“No, not at all.”
Concert resumed, with the addition of throwing himself on the floor, and knocking his feet up and down. After a while:
“Ain’t you crazy yet? Why don’t you shake me, and call me the baddest boy ever was, and send me out doors?”
“Because you are not going out until ten o’clock.”
Concert resumed, with the addition of bumping his head as well as his toes; rest; a pause. Then, picking himself up, he stood erect before me, with his hands in his pockets.
“Why do n’t you whip me, and send me off, to get rid of my noise?”
“Because you are not going out until ten o’clock.”
He stood a moment.
“If I bump my head, ain’t you afraid it will kill me?”
“Not in the least.”
“But it does hurt me awfully.”
“I am happy to hear it.”
He drew a long breath.
“What can I do next? I’se done all I knows how.”
“See if you cannot think of something else.”
“May I take my blocks?”
“Certainly.”
At nine he started up:
“Now may I go?”
“That’s nine.”
He went back to his blocks without a murmur.
At ten he went out.
He had been used to kneel by his mother, say his prayers, and hop into bed. I wished him to kneel with me, by the bed, and say his prayers slowly, and then I would make a short prayer for him. The arrangement did not please him; so, the third night, he gave battle. Being tired, my head did feel as if it couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, bear it. Out of all patience, I determined to give him a good whipping. But never having struck a child, I was not quite hardened enough to take my slipper, and couldn’t see anything else. As I looked around, a voice—my God, speaking through my conscience, asked: “What! whip, in anger, a little boy, because he cannot govern his spirit, when you cannot govern your own? Another than the boy needs to be prayed for.” And kneeling, I asked my Father to give me his strength, his grand patience, with a disobedient, self-willed child. As I kneeled, Willie crawled under my arm, and commenced to say his prayers very slowly, and kept still while I prayed a few words, and then asked:
“Now, may n’t I pray, my own self?”
“Yes, darling.”
And these were his words: “I’s a real mean little boy. She won’t do nothing ugly a bit, and I’s made her head most split. O God, don’t let me be a mean little boy any more at all.”
The splendid little fellow had had a fair trial of strength, and was conquered, and surrendered, manfully; and I had no further trouble or annoyance during the seven weeks he stayed with me.
But how nearly I had lost my vantage ground! If we would rule our own spirits, how easy it would be to rule our children and our servants.—Congregationalist.