"Parenting is the hardest job there is - work on the other hand is easy! Have you got a quarter of a million, because that's what it would cost to replace me on an annual basis." - BJT
Showing posts with label hard work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hard work. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Work Makes Way on Easter Weekend
Labels:
hard work,
Relationship
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Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Are the Best Things in Life Free?
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Friday, April 1, 2011
Patience is a virtuosa
| My daughter Jillian filling out the documents for copyrighting her art collection, "Babies in Bloom". |
Anything worthwhile requires a ton of hard work and patience.
I think those who are so offended by Amy Chua's tiger mother approach should sit down and read the book. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll raise an eyebrow, and you'll learn something.
In a televised interview, her daughters Sophia and Lulu, didn't seem to mind that their mother pushed them so hard. Kudos to Amy for believing in her daughters. And they excelled, but not without a lot of hard work and some heartache thrown in for good measure.
Amy professes in the book that she worries if her daughters will like her when she's old and gray, but she's willing to make that sacrifice for their success at the piano and the violin, and of course in school. And they do!
Amy is brave and far from lazy and her daughters reap the rewards. Her take is that third generation immigrants can make sacrifices like their parents and grandparents only through time spent on music practice. Yes, three hours a day, every day, vacation or no vacation. That's true grit.
Amy is brave and far from lazy and her daughters reap the rewards. Her take is that third generation immigrants can make sacrifices like their parents and grandparents only through time spent on music practice. Yes, three hours a day, every day, vacation or no vacation. That's true grit.
I am so tired of hearing, "I've already said that, and my child doesn't do it."
What they really mean is: "I don't believe in you."
What they really mean is: "I don't believe in you."
Those are the parents who barely lift a finger and hope for the best, which they think is going to happen through osmosis, a miracle, or an alien abduction. Hello! Anything worthwhile takes patience and persistence. You know, the roll up your sleeves kind of patience.
And if a parent wants a child to succeed in school, at an instrument, and in life, a parent needs to be ready, willing, and able to get in the trenches alongside their child as well. End of story; or beginning, depending on which side you decide to take a stand.
Parents, stop whining, and start doing; you' re setting a bad example for your kids. Be prepared to say it over and over, it's called consistency, and it's known as good parenting.
All of you out there who are appalled by Amy Chua's parenting style should should look at your own results.
Let's stop acting like we all have an American inferiority complex and get to work. What was it the comedian Lisa Lampenelli said? Oh yes, "no complain, no explain."
Come on, isn't your child worth it?
If you want excellence you're going to have to expect excellence, period.
If you want losers, keep acting like a loser.
Like my husband used to tell the kids when they got an A-,
"Oh, I see there's still room for improvement!" He was right.
And if I hear the self-esteem argument one more time I might just growl. We wonder why kids are dropping like flies all around us, we can barely let them do anything too stressful. Making their own peanut butter and jelly sandwich is not a stressful endeavor. Beside which some stress is good.
I say Amy is a brave mother! If Amy wants to parent the Asian way then let her, it's obviously working out for her girls. Have you seen the statistics?
Don't get me wrong, we need diversity in the world, we can't all be virtuosos, and it's hard work being a tiger mom.
Still, I envy her heritage.
But it's never too late. Stop slamming someone else's accomplishments and start believing in what your child can do, right now, and then keep going with it.
Patience is a virtuosa or two, and that is that.
And if a parent wants a child to succeed in school, at an instrument, and in life, a parent needs to be ready, willing, and able to get in the trenches alongside their child as well. End of story; or beginning, depending on which side you decide to take a stand.
Parents, stop whining, and start doing; you' re setting a bad example for your kids. Be prepared to say it over and over, it's called consistency, and it's known as good parenting.
All of you out there who are appalled by Amy Chua's parenting style should should look at your own results.
Let's stop acting like we all have an American inferiority complex and get to work. What was it the comedian Lisa Lampenelli said? Oh yes, "no complain, no explain."
Come on, isn't your child worth it?
If you want excellence you're going to have to expect excellence, period.
If you want losers, keep acting like a loser.
Like my husband used to tell the kids when they got an A-,
"Oh, I see there's still room for improvement!" He was right.
And if I hear the self-esteem argument one more time I might just growl. We wonder why kids are dropping like flies all around us, we can barely let them do anything too stressful. Making their own peanut butter and jelly sandwich is not a stressful endeavor. Beside which some stress is good.
I say Amy is a brave mother! If Amy wants to parent the Asian way then let her, it's obviously working out for her girls. Have you seen the statistics?
Don't get me wrong, we need diversity in the world, we can't all be virtuosos, and it's hard work being a tiger mom.
Still, I envy her heritage.
But it's never too late. Stop slamming someone else's accomplishments and start believing in what your child can do, right now, and then keep going with it.
Patience is a virtuosa or two, and that is that.
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| "Cherry Twins", in pastel and pencil, part of the collection by Jillian Toomey. |
Labels:
hard work,
parenting style,
patience
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Excerpt from Growing Up Crazy by Bonnie J.Toomey
Freeze Pops
Winter 1972
There’s ice on my bedroom window in little cornered crescents. It’s still dark out, but it is time to get up for school anyway which I happen to like a lot.
I wriggle out of my pajamas and pull on a hand me down sweater and jeans from my aunt who works as a nurse in Boston. She was always giving us bags of clothes which I would pull apart and alter to fit my style and size. This gave my wardrobe an eccentric and eclectic look all its own which I thought was quite individual and even artsy.
I hated to leave the warmth under the pile of blankets and old coats I had layered on for extra insulation at night. It could get pretty cold upstairs this time of year, and the transition from clothes to no clothes to clothes again was a little unpleasant in the wintertime. There’s never been heat up here, Dad didn’t put it in, but instead cut a hole in the floor the size of a wood stove chimney pipe to let whatever heat rise up from our wood stove down in the kitchen.
“Heat rises,” was how Dad explained it to us. I kept thinking, well maybe it does, but I sure can’t feel it up here.
It is colder than usual this morning. My fingers don’t work as quickly as I want them to. I head downstairs where mom and dad are hunkered under some blankets on the couch which they must have dragged in front of the fireplace during the night. They’re still sleeping. Dad’s head at one end of the couch and mom curled up at the other end.
I grab my bag and step outside into the ice cold morning and my nostrils form tiny icy needles on the first breath in sticking together like metallic glue. Luckily, the bus arrives in less than a minute but long enough to finish turning my toes in my sneakers into ten freeze pops.
I slide in next to Claire careful not to break off any digits.
“Vaugn, you look really cold,” she says, very concerned. The newscaster on the bus radio says that it’s five degrees this morning over central New England, and that it warmed up from the overnight low of zero.
I explain that I think our furnace broke again and she offers me her mittens with the fancy rabbit fur cuffs.
“Thanks, Claire,” I say, and between her offering and the noisy over head heater blowing puffs of warmth into the air, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Winter 1972
There’s ice on my bedroom window in little cornered crescents. It’s still dark out, but it is time to get up for school anyway which I happen to like a lot.
I wriggle out of my pajamas and pull on a hand me down sweater and jeans from my aunt who works as a nurse in Boston. She was always giving us bags of clothes which I would pull apart and alter to fit my style and size. This gave my wardrobe an eccentric and eclectic look all its own which I thought was quite individual and even artsy.
I hated to leave the warmth under the pile of blankets and old coats I had layered on for extra insulation at night. It could get pretty cold upstairs this time of year, and the transition from clothes to no clothes to clothes again was a little unpleasant in the wintertime. There’s never been heat up here, Dad didn’t put it in, but instead cut a hole in the floor the size of a wood stove chimney pipe to let whatever heat rise up from our wood stove down in the kitchen.
“Heat rises,” was how Dad explained it to us. I kept thinking, well maybe it does, but I sure can’t feel it up here.
It is colder than usual this morning. My fingers don’t work as quickly as I want them to. I head downstairs where mom and dad are hunkered under some blankets on the couch which they must have dragged in front of the fireplace during the night. They’re still sleeping. Dad’s head at one end of the couch and mom curled up at the other end.
I grab my bag and step outside into the ice cold morning and my nostrils form tiny icy needles on the first breath in sticking together like metallic glue. Luckily, the bus arrives in less than a minute but long enough to finish turning my toes in my sneakers into ten freeze pops.
I slide in next to Claire careful not to break off any digits.
“Vaugn, you look really cold,” she says, very concerned. The newscaster on the bus radio says that it’s five degrees this morning over central New England, and that it warmed up from the overnight low of zero.
I explain that I think our furnace broke again and she offers me her mittens with the fancy rabbit fur cuffs.
“Thanks, Claire,” I say, and between her offering and the noisy over head heater blowing puffs of warmth into the air, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Excerpt from Leaf Landing by Bonnie J. Toomey
French Lesson
French is not the easiest class to miss.
I missed almost two weeks straight
after Mom died
and a lot of other days before that
and now I am really behind.
Mom wanted me to take French
because she thought it would help
in ballet class.
Dad lost a couple of bids.
He says people are losing
their jobs,
the economy is bad
The TV keeps warning
unemployment is up,
gas prices are up
and people are fed up.
I don’t know why Dad
has to watch
it only makes him
yell at the TV
Dad says we need to conserve more than we have been
now the house feels cooler.
When I complain,
Dad says
to go outside and come back in ,
then I’ll feel warmer.
Harriet and I spend our time bundled in
an extra layer of clothes
or dragging an afghan around
like giant moths in cocoons.
We are out of butter again.
Dad says
to try using peanut butter.
Well, isn’t the word,
butter,
in it?
Harriett won’t eat her toast
and it just sits on the plate
getting cold
like the floors
in this house
and suddenly the one phrase
in French,
“It is cold.” comes back to me:
“Il fait froid,
la maison est fait froide."
French is not the easiest class to miss.
I missed almost two weeks straight
after Mom died
and a lot of other days before that
and now I am really behind.
Mom wanted me to take French
because she thought it would help
in ballet class.
Dad lost a couple of bids.
He says people are losing
their jobs,
the economy is bad
The TV keeps warning
unemployment is up,
gas prices are up
and people are fed up.
I don’t know why Dad
has to watch
it only makes him
yell at the TV
Dad says we need to conserve more than we have been
now the house feels cooler.
When I complain,
Dad says
to go outside and come back in ,
then I’ll feel warmer.
Harriet and I spend our time bundled in
an extra layer of clothes
or dragging an afghan around
like giant moths in cocoons.
We are out of butter again.
Dad says
to try using peanut butter.
Well, isn’t the word,
butter,
in it?
Harriett won’t eat her toast
and it just sits on the plate
getting cold
like the floors
in this house
and suddenly the one phrase
in French,
“It is cold.” comes back to me:
“Il fait froid,
la maison est fait froide."

