Raise A Shoe In Solidarity!

I’ve always maintained that there’s no such thing as a bad kid or a bad dog. They just need different levels of finesse. I say that having raised several dogs, a girl and a boy, and coaching kids of all ages. There are however, more and more rotten parents whose apparent structure-deprived lifestyles enable zoo-like behavior from their youngins.

My kids understood my behavior expectations at an early age. They weren’t perfect and required correction occasionally. But, like the master of attitude-adjustment (my dad) I could deliver a smiling hair tweak on the sensitive zone between neck and hairline while giving a big loving dad-hug. (It’s a gift derived from years of tutelage under the master of hair hugs.) And if that failed, there was “the walk.” The walk involved removal from the situation AND a hair-hug. Never anger. Never screaming. Just swift and immediate correction with a brief reminder of expectations. It worked. With a little fear of hair-hugs came respect and a complete understanding of expectations and consequences. And it was noticed. Everywhere I went people commented on my well-behaved children as if it was some kind of societal oddity.

I went to lunch with my son Joe a couple of weeks ago while he was home from college for spring break. There was a young boy, about four years old, at a table near us that is clearly headed for life as a terrorist. He screamed and ran wild through the restaurant. His mother said, “no” several times, laughing with her girlfriend about her child’s behavior. Joe turned to me and said, “that kid needs to go for a walk!” “No, the baby-mom does,” I replied.

Behavioral correction doesn’t take harsh, abusive punishment (like what I saw at Mayfair Mall during the Christmas shopping season). I had to jump out of the way as a wild-eyed large woman of color dragged her ten-year-old son out of a store by the leg and beat the demons out of him with her shoe. The woman never uttered a four letter word but was invoking the strength of her Lord and Savior with each whack of her size 12.

Now, I know people are going to ask why I didn’t intervene, stopping the apparent child abuse. One…she was a large angry woman, intent on making an attitude adjustment (in the name of God no less). And two…I firmly believe that it does NOT take a village to raise a child. Maybe a shoe-beat down is the cultural equivalent of a hair-hug. We didn’t cover that in my two semesters of Sociology at UWM. At any rate, I would bet that her child (who seemed no worse for wear, but a little embarrassed) now completely understands her behavior expectations and will carry that life lesson forward. As I recall, the entire mall was better behaved that day!

Not so long ago a female politician (I won’t mention which witch, but she has dishwater blonde hair, a voice like Gilbert Gottfried… and may have been married to someone important) squawking about how raising a child “takes a village.” Really, a village? I suddenly hate the word “village.” Like I hate the term “comfort food,” conjuring images of morbidly obese thirty-year olds wallowing in their 600 pound lives, “comforted” by a bucket of chicken, four Big Macs, and a 64 ounce Slurpee. I love food but don’t sit whimpering under a blanket with a pan of brownies and an emotional support duck for “comfort.”

For God’s sake, this is America, not tribal Africa in the 1600’s. The only thing we need a “village” for is a place to safely live with plowed streets and mowed parks. The last thing we need is more “village” involvement in ANYTHING.

But as society quickly slides towards idiocracy, the selfie generation needs a reminder that the sun doesn’t rise and set on their narcissistic presence or that of their poorly behaved offspring. That goes for grandparents too, who appear to be oblivious to the rogue army of daycare-raised feral children. Grandpa, it’s ok to stop your cute little charge from scream-talking and kicking the wall behind me at a nice restaurant at 9 pm. They probably won’t even remember to tell their baby-mama how mean you are for asking for their “inside voice.”

For some reason bad behavior is tolerated. Maybe it’s a lack of parental involvement. Little trophies seem to be left to their own devices while their caregivers are absorbed in their devices. It’s as if parental involvement is frowned upon at the risk of somehow interfering with the Village’s free-range philosophy.

Several years ago on a warm Saturday afternoon when my kids were small, we were sitting in a booth at Schreiners restaurant. Gabby was happily coloring and Joe and I were playing tic-tac-toe. We were talking and laughing quietly and having a nice time before dinner. I sensed someone watching us but ignored their stare. I mean it’s odd right? A guy having dinner with his two young kids, coloring… playing tic-tac-toe?

A well-dressed middle-aged man approached our booth. “Part time dad?” he said excitedly.

“Excuse me?” I asked , taken aback at not only the approach but his approach.

“You know, part-time dad, taking the kids for the weekend after of couple weeks….” he continued.

“No, 24/7 dad.” I replied with annoyance. What this guy couldn’t have known is that I was indeed a 24/7 dad but broken – and a little edgy – post-divorce. The last thing I needed at the time was a “village” idiot.

“Here’s my card!” he said enthusiastically, setting his business card on the table. “I’m a family counselor, working with kids! You’re making all the classic part-time dad mistakes. You don’t need to entertain your children. Read a paper. Do your own thing. Let them color and play by themselves. There’s my card. Give me a call,” he said, tapping the business card on the table.

I picked up his card and looked at it briefly. “Thanks!” I said. “I don’t have a place to put my gum,” folding the card over the piece of gum in my mouth and throwing it on the floor.

OK, maybe a bit harsh but I wasn’t holding up my Wile E Coyote “HELP!” sign before the guy crept up on my family dinner.

I wasn’t asking for help but maybe there’s an expectation from villagers that society will jump in when their wild-child acts up. This way the baby-mama or grandpa can still be friends with their mini me. But there should be a signal…a way of letting both child and caregiver know that behavior has slid below an acceptable level.

Confrontation is socially unacceptable and will only lead to tantrums (from the caregiver). Canned air boat horns, while effective at drawing attention to and redirecting behavior, can have an adverse effect on the cardiac health of the elderly. There has to be a universal sign that both child and caregiver will instantly recognize to prompt corrective action. Stares, eyerolls, and headshakes don’t work with villagers. It must be a subtle but recognizable signal that intervention is pending….

A raised shoe.

Not overhead in a socially unacceptable aggressive posture. Not cocked like a baseball pitcher, aimed at a behavioral infraction… or the caregiver. Just a raised shoe. Shoulder height. Silently visible. The equivalent of a BEWARE OF DOG sign with a cartoon picture of a bulldog with a spiked collar nailed to a fence.

It would do my heart good to see a roomful of restaurant patrons with shoes raised in solidarity next time I see a child go rogue.