Where is My Professor of Parenting?

College was so nice.  I really liked college.  Granted I might have been a better student if I had already been married.  Nevertheless.

In college presumably the professor of your class is the leader in her field.  She is a guru of musical analytical techniques, or whatever the class is that she is teaching.

She has office hours, you can make an appointment and ask her questions.  You trust her answers.  She is the professor.  She has a PHD and you address her as doctor.

She gives a mid-term exam.  After that you pretty much know where you stand.  You might need to step it up a little, or maybe you are doing okay and can focus more on your other classes.  At the end of the semester you get a grade.  Maybe an A, maybe a B minus--maybe it was fair, maybe not--but you know how you did and it goes on your permanent record.

WHERE IS MY PROFESSOR OF PARENTING!

Where is that guru that I completely trust to give me the right answers to my difficult questions?  The one who knows the subject matter better than me? She can tell me if I'm doing okay, or if I need to step it up a notch. . .

Bill and I stare in disbelief when our two children get into a meaningless spat at breakfast this morning.  This is the way this Fall has been going.  Our hitherto constant playmates seem to be at each other's throats.  Then the older brother mouths off to dad and gets himself into thicker trouble.  Younger sister sits like gloating angel across the table causing further angst.

Professor?

I am so tired of the excuses. But she said. . . but he wouldn't. . . .

All we want is a yes mom, yes dad.  The older brother won't let it go.  Now he's in even bigger trouble.

Primal scream.

The best book I ever read on parenting was 1-2-3 Magic, (www.parentmagic.com) by Dr. Thomas Phelan.  I do like that doctor label.  My favorite point of the book is that we have to remove our own emotions from our discipline.

Correct the behavior.
Correct the behavior.
Correct the behavior.

Don't get sucked into the emotions.  Don't let it escalate.
Easier said than done.  For me anyway.

I asked a friend about her boy and girl.  She said, oh yes, they got to an age when they needed space and couldn't play together anymore.  I'm not accepting that.

I'm also not accepting this angry young teenager thing.  Especially not from a ten year old.

Gentle justice--that phrase from a hymn by Marty Haugen--the brother of our Deerwood principle.

That is my never ending goal.  Gentle justice.  Correct the behavior.  Love the child.

Office hours?  The professor is not available. We only have our faith,  our spouse, our own parents, and books and friends along the way.

We cram for the midterm--and everyday is a test.  Only this degree takes a lifetime to finish and the final grade is the most important one we will ever earn.