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On Saying “No”

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 3, 1893

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 19, No. 22.

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ON SAYING “NO.”

By Eleanor A. Hunter

BY ELEANOR A. HUNTER.
“It is easy to mind Aunt Margaret,” I heard a little girl of twelve say not long ago. “She says ‘no’ just as pleasantly as she says ‘yes.’”
Now the clear logic of a child often illuminates a dark subject, and it seemed to me that this little girl’s remark contained a truth which would bear thinking of. I began to observe the way in which those of my friends who have children say “no” to them. Here is one instance.
A little boy of two was sitting in his high-chair at the table where his mother was making cake. He was an active child, and he had been sitting there some time, but he had been very quiet and good. There was a cut-glass tumbler within his reach and he took it.
“No, no, Freddie,” cried his mother sharply. “Put that glass down this instant.”
The baby glanced at his mother with a look of sudden defiance, and immediately dashed the glass onto the floor.
“You naughty boy!” cried the mother, and, dropping her spoon, she spatted his hands severely, and turned his chair to the wall for further punishment, while she swept up the fragments of broken glass.
“I never saw such a child,” said she in an exasperated way. “I never forbid him anything that he does not instantly disobey me if he can.”
The poor baby was sobbing with mingled pain and rage, and my heart ached as I thought of all the years of fighting, anger, and bitterness which were before him. I thought how his nature would be warped and injured by such treatment, and I knew if he was not utterly ruined it would only be by the mercy of God.
I watched other mothers to see what their methods of refusal were.
“No; you cannot.” “No; and don’t you ask me again.” “No; and stop teasing.” “No; and do go away somewhere.” “No; and when I say no, I mean no.”
These forms of refusal were common in a number of families. I heard them repeatedly, and they were always spoken in an irritated tone; and I heard one mother say, “No; and if you ask me again I’ll whip you.”
Perhaps you think these mothers were rude, uncultivated women; but they were not, they were ladies. They had both social and intellectual advantages, and most of them were church members; Christian women, I do not doubt. They loved their children, too. If any ill or hurt came to their children’s tender bodies, they suffered with them, but any hurt which they gave to the loving hearts and tender spirits of their children they never recognized. My soul was filled with indignation. I did not blame the little creatures for the wrathful though impotent protests which they made against this injustice and tyranny. I felt that I should rebel if I were so treated. It takes long years of practice in self-control to enable one to bear insult calmly, and what can one expect of a little, inexperienced, quick-tempered child?
“But,” said a mother with whom I dared remonstrate, “I have to be severe with my children. If I were not, they would not obey me at all.”
I sighed. How could I show that mother that she was mistaken?
“I am sure,” said I, “that children can be taught that it is just as necessary to obey a pleasant ‘no’ as a cross one, and it is so much easier for them to mind when they are refused kindly. The spirit of combativeness is not roused, and all they have to do is to bear the disappointment, whatever it may be, and that is often hard enough for their eager little hearts to endure. But if they love you and trust you, and you give them as much sympathy over their troubles as you would for a cut finger, for instance, you will be surprised at the brave way in which they will resign a forbidden pleasure, having faith that ‘mamma knows best.’”
I was sitting with a friend once when her twelve-year-old boy sprang into the room, eager and impetuous.
“Mother,” he shouted, “can I go out to the swimming hole this afternoon? All the fellows are going.”
The mother quietly shook her head. “I’m sorry,” said she, “but you cannot go.”
The boy did not see me in his absorption, and he straightened himself defiantly. “I will go,” said he.
Instantly a look of reproof and command came into the mother’s face, and she silently looked her boy in the eyes.
He softened at once. “I want to go awfully,” said he.
“I know it,” she answered gently, “but your father has decided that you are not a sufficiently expert swimmer to go into the water without him, and he cannot go with you this afternoon. Here is Miss B.,” his mother added; “cannot you go and speak to her?”
He gathered himself together and came and shook hands with me politely, but all his bright, eager looks had vanished; he was plainly bitterly disappointed; he went and sat down on the piazza for some time in silence. Finally he came in again.
“Mother,” said he, “I don’t believe Harry Hotchkiss can go swimming either. If I can get him, may we go over to Pelham Woods together?”
“Oh, yes,” answered his mother cordially, “and there are fresh cookies in the cooky jar; you may take some for both of you!”
Tom’s face grew brighter; he made a plunge for his mother, and gave her a hug which tousled her hair and crushed her neck ruffle entirely. “Mother,” said he, “I just love you.”
“So do I you, Tom,” she answered quickly. And then Master Tom dashed out of the room.
“Well,” said the mother laughingly, after his departure, while she rearranged her hair, “how would you like to possess a young bear like that?”
“Ah,” I returned, “I think you are a fortunate mother to be able to govern such an impetuous lad so well.”
“It is very anxious business, though,” she responded, “this saying ‘no.’ I am often afraid he will break away from me, he is so intense and so eager; but he loves me, and if I can give him a little time, his affection for me wins. He knows that I always say ‘yes’ when I can.”
“You will keep him, never fear,” I answered. “A boy who loves his mother, and is sure that his mother loves him and longs to make him happy, will never break away, for love is the strongest tie in the world.”—Christian at Work.