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If
you want to teach something, be something.
Sounds good.
Sometimes I wish I could tell my
kids to carry on, do what they know
is right and don’t mind me. Being a hypocrite is easy. Being a role
model takes work—more work than I’m up to after tethering and
weathering the moments of my life.
When my three children were
small, I could get away with the
convenience of “do as I say, not as I do.” They didn’t notice the
Snickers wrapper on the counter as I made dinner. They didn’t say a
word when I wore socks with holes in the toes, and they were too busy
playing with Kermit the Frog and Candyland to see me clean the entry
floor after tracking in my own share of mud. Or perhaps they were too
much in awe of Mommy to say anything.
Maybe not.
But as they graduated to Barbie,
Battleship, and beyond, their minds
grasped a scary new concept—independent thought. That’s when they began
to challenge me and my two-faced behavior.
“How come we have to make our
beds, when your bed isn’t made yet?”
“How come we can only watch TV
an hour a night but you can watch more?”
“How come your coat is hanging
on the back of a chair and ours have to be hung up?”
I shake my head, stalling until
I conjure up a desperate parent’s jewel: “Because I’m the mom, that’s
why!”
They roll their eyes and leave
me to my humiliation. How’d they get so smart? Certainly it wasn’t by
my example.
It doesn’t help my self-esteem
to remember my own mother’s perfection. I never caught her in a faux
pas.
No wet towels on the floor, no crumbs brushed onto the kitchen floor
when no one was looking, no televisions blaring at a ridiculous level
(can I help it if I like to feel my movies?). She
taught us by
example. When she worked till the early morning hours sewing a prom
dress, we learned to be industrious. When she made the roast and
leftover corn last for two more meals, we learned to be thrifty. When
she made quilts for the less fortunate, we learned to be charitable.
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What
am I teaching my kids?
There are some
good things. When I work on getting a book
written, plodding along one sentence, one word at a time, they learn
persistence. When I hug their father right in front of them and even
give him a kiss (gasp!) they learn love. When I tell them how a prayer
was answered, they learn faith.
Not too bad.
Although I am
working on making my bed, limiting my
television time, and hanging up my coat, above all—flaws and all—I’m
teaching my children we’re in this together. I don’t know all the
answers, although I do know a bit more than they do. I have good traits
I hope they’ll embrace and bad habits I hope they’ll avoid.
They know I’m not perfect.
“Train a child in the way he
should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it” (Prov.
22:6(NIV).
If you want to teach
something, be something.
I’m human. Human I can teach.
Human I can be.
Perhaps, somehow, they’ll learn
from that.
 
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