The Lost Art of Saying Thank You

It feels ironic to me to be writing this post because I had no intention of writing it. A few weeks ago, I planned out my posts for November, and this post was not on the schedule. If there's one thing November doesn't need, it's another gratitude post.

But then Halloween came. We wanted to go trick-or-treating as a family, and so we left a bowl of candy on our porch with the instructions, Take One. Most of our friends laughed at our naive trust. "Does that really work?" they asked. "I bet a couple of kids cleaned it out in the first five minutes."

It was still early in the evening, not even dark yet. I could imagine such a thing happening once it was late enough for the teenagers to be out, but right now, almost all of the kids I was seeing were accompanied by adults, and surely the parents wouldn't allow their kids to be so greedy and selfish?

Several days later, I was talking to a friend about Halloween. She told me about the haunted house she'd made in the back of her dad's truck where kids could reach into various compartments in search of candy. Even though she specifically said, "Please just take one piece of candy," the kids would leave with handfuls. Often, the parents were standing right there, listening to her instructions, watching their kids' actions, and doing nothing.

And then November came with its barrage of gratitude around every corner, but all I could see was this wide chasm of inconsistency between the actions on Halloween night and the actions during the first week of November. Were the same parents who had turned a blind eye to their children's greediness on Halloween the very ones who were now encouraging them to write little gratitude notes every day? It suddenly all seemed very superficial to me . . . like we're being grateful for show but not where it really matters. It might sound dramatic for me to say this, but there is a plague of ingratitude sweeping the world, and it is the parents who are at fault. Through word and action, we are teaching our kids how to pretend to be grateful while overlooking the very things that would actually cultivate that trait in each of us.

Here are some of the things I'm talking about:

Write thank you notes--real thank you notes--for  gifts or kind actions given. This is not a gratitude activity (Think of someone you're grateful for and write them a note). No, no, no. This is a practical and tangible response to an actual event (Scott gave you a birthday present, so you need to thank him for it). Yes, it takes time and effort on the part of the parent and the child (and I'll be the first to admit that sometimes I drop the ball and never remember to put on a stamp and stick it in the mail), but it is worth it. Of course, a mumbled, cursory "thank you" is better than nothing, but I promise you that your children will develop a deeper feeling of appreciation if they have to write it out and mail it.

Take care of your possessions. I've been thinking about this one a lot lately because we are not very good at it. My kids leave their scooters and their bikes (not to mention their socks and shoes and coats) all over the front lawn. They toss off their helmets and let them fall with cracking thumps to the driveway. They lose game pieces and marker lids and Lego guys. I'm almost certain this is as much an issue of having too much stuff as it is about being grateful for what we have, but that's a post for another day. Possessions are not expendable, but I think it often seems that way to our children. Just the other day, Aaron broke his watchband. It wasn't his fault (he got it caught while jumping at a trampoline place), but I'm still wondering if I made the right choice in immediately ordering him another one. Did it come across as, "Oh, you broke your watch? No big deal. Here's another one." I really want my kids to value what they have, take personal responsibility for it, and keep it in good condition.

Wait for an offer. Some of you will disagree with me on this one. I have friends who want their home to be open and inviting: Come on in, and feel free to raid the pantry and refrigerator! In some ways, that's great. It shows selflessness and generosity, but it does those on the receiving end a great disservice. They develop an entitled attitude (which is probably why, even when my friend told the kids to just take one piece of candy, they felt like they could disregard what she said and grab a handful). I'm always reminding my kids when they go to a friend's house, "Do not ask for food. If it's offered to you, you may say, 'yes, please' or 'no, thank you.'" I know they don't always listen (especially if it's in a home where they feel very comfortable--sorry, Sonja!), but I'm not giving up. Part of being grateful involves not assuming that the world is yours for the taking.

Practice saying "thank you." A few years ago, I was at a bridal shower where the bride-to-be didn't say thank you even once as she sat opening gifts. It seemed like a glaring oversight to me, but she seemed totally unfazed. I wondered how you could get to adulthood and not have saying "thank you" come up as a natural response, but as I taught this skill to my children, I began to understand. One of my children is very shy and will do almost anything to get out of saying "thank you" to someone because it embarrasses him. I have to give him many opportunities to practice saying those two little words so that they don't make him feel so uncomfortable. Forcing my children to say thank you and practicing it with them might seem superficial, but I believe this is one of my jobs as a parent. When I was growing up, we couldn't leave the table without thanking my mom for the "delicious dinner." Was it always perfectly sincere? No, but my parents were giving us opportunities to practice saying thank you in an environment that was safe and non-judgmental. We developed feelings of real gratitude as we gave acknowledgement to others through our verbal thanks.

Be generous. When we feel thankful, we share our bounty with others. Isn't that kind of the message behind the first Thanksgiving? The American Indians helped the Pilgrims with their crops, and then the Pilgrims shared their feast with them. When we feel blessed, a natural response should be that we want to find someone to help. But again, sometimes those "natural" responses take a little nudging before they become habits, and we have a responsibility to encourage such giving.

Practice daily gratitude. Because we are religious, my family and I have many opportunities every day to acknowledge our blessings through prayer. Whether you're religious or not though, the act of daily gratitude is so important. That's why gratitude journals and challenges and posters are so popular. People realize that when they take a step back and acknowledge their blessings, they are happier. For me, I choose to do this in my prayers and thank my Heavenly Father who I believe is the Giver of all good things.

I guess my main point with all of this is that we have got to stop assuming that our children will grow up and magically write thank you notes, take care of their possessions, wait for an offer, say thank you, be generous, and practice daily gratitude. They won't. Unless we make it a habit now, unless we give them opportunities to be grateful every day, unless we model this behavior ourselves, and unless we really expect this behavior from them, they won't. Let's halt the plague of ingratitude, right now, during this month of Thanksgiving so that next October, there will be very different children saying, "Trick or Treat."

On Saying the Wrong Thing (and Maybe the Right Thing, Too)

As someone who is perpetually terrified of saying the wrong thing, you'd think I'd be grateful for lists such as, "10 Things Not to Say to [pregnant women, new moms, infertile couples, grieving friends, breastfeeding moms, single acquaintances, etc. etc. etc.]. But no. Rather, they increase my anxiety: if there are that many things I can't say to that many different people, then what can I say and to whom?

Has the old adage of "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothin' at all" been condensed to "Don't Say Anything"?

I'm seeing these types of lists and advice posts more and more frequently, and every time I do, I cringe just a little. I have to wonder: In eliminating all the questions, advice, and comments that might be taken the wrong way, are we silencing the very words which might bind us together and deepen our connections with one another?

An obvious response to this would be, Just make sure you're saying kind words. However, the thing about these lists is that, taken one at a time, most of the off-limit comments are not truly mean.

It may be true that if you ask a new mom how her new baby is sleeping at night, she might take offense. Perhaps she only got a combined total of thirty minutes of sleep the night before, and she's sure your question is really your way of rubbing in the fact that your baby slept through the night at two weeks old. So if you follow the advice to never bring up a baby's sleeping habits around a new mom, you won't run the risk of offending her. But then again, if you avoid the topic, you will most certainly miss the opportunity to let her cry her exhausted tears on your sympathetic shoulder. And if I had to choose, I'd say the latter is the greater tragedy.

Mike has an abundance of aunts (seriously, who wouldn't want an abundance of aunts?!), all of them kind and experienced and wonderfully wise. One time one of them said (and I'm paraphrasing) that we have to be willing to talk about the weaknesses that make us feel vulnerable because that's how we connect with one another. And that's true. But in my opinion, it is equally important to ask the questions or offer the words that make us feel vulnerable. It's hard, but sometimes we have to risk saying the wrong thing in order to ever say the right thing.

Of course I've received my fair share of comments that seemed tactless, thoughtless, or even rude. For the sake of illustration,  I'll give one small example, one that (happily for you) isn't steeped in too much emotional drama:

Aaron started first grade this year. He's going to a different elementary school than the one we're zoned for. During the past several months, I've had friends, neighbors, and family members ask me where Aaron is going to school, and when I tell them, they're always very curious about our decision. Consequently, I always feel like I have to add a dozen justifications for why he is going to that school instead of the one in our neighborhood.

Maybe I should write a post: 10 Things Not to Say to a Mom Who Has Just Spent an Entire Year Trying to Decide What To Do For Her Six-Year-Old Son's Education. Because sometimes, I admit, I've felt a little defensive.

But if I wrote that post, and if you read it, and if you applied everything you read and avoided the subject of education completely, I would truly be missing out--on the chance to hear another perspective, to hash out my doubts and insecurities, and to discover commonalities. And I wouldn't miss out on that for the world.

Okay, one more example. Yesterday I looked out on the backyard to find that Maxwell had turned on the hose. Again. All summer long, he's been turning it on, getting himself all wet, and leaving it running until I discover it many hours later. I've told him again and again that he can't turn it on without asking me. So I informed him that he'd have to go inside. And he proceeded to run away. Of course. He ran into the front yard, and our neighbor, who was watching, laughed and said, "He'll be grown up before you know it."

I'm pretty sure that comment is on all of the 10 Things Not to Say to a Mom of a Four-Year-Old lists, especially if you've never had a to deal with a four-year-old of your own. But oh, I'm so glad Kristy obviously hadn't read or applied that advice. If she'd made some safe comment about the beautiful weather or just pretended not to see me, I know I wouldn't have had any reason to smile in that moment. And sometimes, a little smile to diffuse the tension can go a long way.

Of course there are some things you should never say to new moms or old dads or anyone else, but I would hope you wouldn't need a list to know what those things are. And the truth is, the kinds of people who like to make mean-spirited comments are going to make them regardless of a list being out there that says that they shouldn't.

In the end, we're just imperfect people making imperfect connections. So please, ask me about my baby's sleep patterns or my children's education. Remind me that small ones grow up too fast and that life is too short. I'll do the same, and together we'll strengthen those life-saving, life-giving, and live-enriching ties.

Bah Humbug

I love Christmas. It is by far my favorite holiday. I love the whole month of anticipation and activities leading up to it; I love the Christmas carols and songs; I love the transformation of the dark and dismal streets into elegant splendor. And I love focusing on the incomprehensible love and sacrifice of the Savior.

But I don't love everything about the Season. At the risk of offending the majority of my readers, here are five things I fervently wish would go (and stay) away:

1. Elf on the Shelf. I know this is supposedly a revived tradition from the 1950's, but it seems more like a commercialized scheme to me. Honestly, I think if this was someone's personal family tradition, I might think it was kind of cute and creative, but where everyone has their own little elf to keep an eye on them during the day and then wreak havoc at night, it's just so ridiculous for so many reasons: 1) I know the elf doesn't have to do naughty things, but many of them do (that seems to kind of be the point), and that just seems like a horrible message for my kids (you better watch out, you better not cry, but let's all laugh about Bobby the Elf spilling soda pop all over the floor and making snow angels in rice). 2) It feels so fake to me. Even if I was a fan, I don't think I could pull off the nightly deceptions. (What about Santa, you ask? That's a whole other discussion, but even though Santa comes to our house, I try to focus more on other things. Still, I know I'm a bit of a hypocrite on this point.) 3) It's one more daily thing to clutter my life. We do have lots of holiday traditions (some of them daily), but I try to only hang onto ones that I feel strongly about and enjoy doing every year. So if you do Elf on the Shelf, I hope it's filling your life with joy and happiness. (I found this article on the Nauvoo Times to be very validating.) I had a feeling Aaron would probably be hearing about elves on shelves from kids at school, and so before he even asked about it, I flat out told him there was no way we'd ever get one. Just call me Scrooge.

2. Inflatable decorations. You know what I'm talking about, right? Giant Santa Clauses and Grinches and Snoopys that blow up like balloons and fill up your entire front yard. They look so tacky and cheap to me, and it seems like the lazy man's way of decorating: instead of stringing lights around your trees, why not stick a giant purple hippo wearing a Santa Claus hat on your front porch (you think I'm kidding . . . I drove past this very thing today) and call it good?

3. Jingle Bell Rock, etc. I'm as much a fan of fun Christmas songs as the next person. I like Jingle Bells and Frosty and Have a Holly Jolly Christmas. But I am not a fan of poorly composed Christmas songs with stupid lyrics performed by some obnoxious singer on a synthesizer. I'd rather drink a gallon of eggnog (see #5). 

4. Santa Claus' new persona. Instead of being a figure of generosity, kindness, and goodwill, there are so many movies, books, songs, decorations, and commercials that paint Santa as a big, fat, bumbling idiot. Santa Claus with sunglasses and polka-dotted shorts playing a saxophone? Why would I want to believe in someone like that? That is not the Santa I grew up believing in, and if that's the image my boys are creating from the superficial commercialization they see everywhere, then I guess we won't be believing in Santa Claus for much longer.

5. Eggnog. I used to drink it because my family had special Christmas mugs to sip it from, but it's foul stuff, and I'm done with it.

Whew, that felt good, but do I have any friends left? Does anyone else agree with me? What are the things that make you say "Bah humbug"?

LibraryPages: Borrow, But Don't Read

Note: the following is not meant to be unduly critical of the library. I love the library! I just want to express my feelings and then hear your wise and unbiased opinions.

Yesterday, Aaron and I went to the library. When I tried to use the self check-out, a little message popped up and said there was a problem with my card. This was not surprising since our library recently revamped their computer system and changed their check-out/check-in systems, and in the last two months, I always seem to encounter some kind of problem.

So I made my way over to one of the real, live librarians and told her I couldn't check out. She scanned my card and said it was because there was a $29.00 fine on it and they only allow fines to go up to $25.00. My mouth gaped open in astonishment, and I spluttered, "That cannot possibly be true." I said that in good faith since I had checked my account just that morning and seen with my own two eyes that my fines amounted to a measly 80 cents.

"It's for a damaged item," she said. "A Mind at a Time."

I had just returned that book a few minutes before, and I feverishly racked my brain for what kind of damage I had done to it. Thrown it into the fire? No. Stomped on it in a wild dance? Not this time. Ripped it up in a fit of rage? It wasn't that kind of book.

The librarian could see I was getting flustered, so she beckoned to another librarian, who came over holding A Mind at a Time. I refrained from snatching it out of her hands.

"How is it damaged?" I asked. As she opened up the front cover, I remembered.

When I checked out the book, the first grouping of 20 pages was beginning to pull away from the binding. During the few weeks of opening, closing, holding, and reading it, the pages had come all the way out--but were still glued together in their own little group.

So there it was. My abuse was not in burning or stomping or ripping, but in reading.

I rushed to defend myself: "I didn't do that! The pages were already coming out when I got the book."

Apparently, the librarian holding the book had been in the process of writing me an email. I almost wish it had been sent before we got things resolved. I would have loved to know what she was saying. Instead, she said, "Oh, that's fine. Next time, just make sure you tell us about the problem when you return the book."

So the fine is gone. And I should be happy. But I'm still a bit rankled for three reasons:

1. I check out well-used items from the library all the time: board books with flaps missing, paperbacks that are bent and scuffed, DVDs that are so scratched they skip more than they play. Am I really going to have to start reporting how all these items are damaged when I return them just so that I don't accrue unwarranted fines?
2. As items get read and used, it should be expected that a certain amount of wear and tear will occur. Even under the best handling, an item can only be passed between so many hands before it starts to show its age. How do you decide who is responsible for the damage when it was the work of several different people reading the book?
3. The book was still very readable (so readable I forgot to even mention the damage when I turned the book in--and, rather ironically, I did mention some problems with a picture book I was checking in at the same time). Even if the damage had been completely the result of my negligence and my mistreatment, I still don't think I should have had to pay the full cost to replace the book. If the book was so damaged it had to be retired, then yes, of course. But if it was merely going to be repaired and placed back on the shelf? Then charge a fine for damage but not an entire replacement fee.

Mike and I were talking about the whole situation, and we both half-seriously agreed that I maybe should have paid the $29.00 just as a way of saying thank-you for the thousands of dollars worth of books we've checked out over the years. Or because our own little bits of damage (a DVD scratch here or a crease or small tear there) have probably added up to $29.00. I certainly do not want to be stingy in regards to the library because I love that system so much, and my life would be completely different without it.

However, I also want to be fair.

And in all fairness, there have been many times when I've mentioned damage that we've done to books. I'm definitely not trying to get away with abuse. The funny thing is, because the damage was small, they've always just smiled and said something like, "Oh don't worry about it. That book has been around forever. That's what happens when you read a book."

This time was just so surprising and unexpected. I don't know if they're trying to crack down a little and make patrons more responsible or if this particular librarian was just a little over-zealous.

I would welcome any feedback, particularly from current- or former-librarians. Is it too optimistic to hope I have a silent reader or two who works in one of the Salt Lake City libraries? How about other moms who have had to deal with the dilemma of reporting damage? Do other libraries charge a damage fee, or is it all or nothing? Please share your opinions (but of course, do so kindly!).

A Pet Peeve of Mine, or Why Parents are a Big Fat Bunch of Hypocrites

As you already know, I'm an introvert. Which means, I avoid face-to-fact confrontations and conflicts. But which doesn't mean that I don't have an opinion.

I just need a safe place to give voice to that opinion. I know! How about this blog? No eye contact required.

Excuse me while I ascend my soapbox for a moment.

I participate in a little once-a-week music class with my boys. It's super fun. Each mom has a turn to plan and carry it out. We sing old favorites. We learn new tunes. We dance around the room and play instruments.

And we talk.

Picture this: the moms are seated in a circle with their kids. The mom in charge is at the front of the room demonstrating the actions to a new song. But no one can hear her because of all the moms who are yakking it up. They are pretending to participate (they're sitting on the floor, after all), but really, they're catching up on the latest gossip and sharing their most recent parenting woes.

This bothers me on so many different levels:

First, and most basic, I can't hear what the instructor is saying. Nor can my children. But now I know that Baby Johnny is teething.

Second, it is rude to the mom in charge. It is hard enough to corral a rowdy bunch of two- and three-year-olds without having to calm the mothers down as well. It puts her in an awkward position: should she ask the moms to quiet down? But they're her friends. Plus, she might be doing the same kind of talking next week.

Third, I've noticed that the louder the moms are, the more the kids feel at liberty to disengage themselves. They are off climbing the chairs or hiding behind the chalkboard. The moms create a din, and it makes it difficult for everyone else to focus.

Fourth, we expect our kids to be still and quiet when we take them to adult events (church or wedding receptions or funerals), but we think we don't have to be still and quiet at their activities. We are setting a very poor example, and they are paying attention to it.

I'm not just ranting against other people. I'm ranting against myself, too. I know I've been guilty of talking during activities like these. The fact is, I like to talk; I like to catch up; I like to have a sympathetic ear.

But lately, I've been making a conscious effort to zip my lips when it's someone else's turn to talk. I can do my talking before or after but not during. I want my boys to listen and be respectful. I'm raising the bar for them, and I'm going to hold myself to it as well.

If you think this doesn't apply to you, the next time you're with your kids at storytime at the library (because it happens there, too), pay attention to what you're doing. It is so easy to fall into the talking trap. And while you might not realize your mouth is moving, everyone else around you does.

Descending soapbox. Thank you for listening.