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Walking the dog.

I actually can get along quite well with little kids. And in a totally non-creepy way. It's got something to do with me not actually ever growing up completely, I guess. I'm still desperately clinging on to my childhood persona. And it lets me relate to younger people with much success. On of my friends talked to me at length about such things and we decided we were both at the advantage since we both were in the same situation in that regard.

It's why I have more fun drawing Ben the Box Boy than all the other stuff.

But I don't like kids when they go through my room and touch my things. Or worse, talk to me. My dad had invited some work friends over for the weekend, and one brought his son. As soon as he got inside the house he disappeared up the stairs. When I got upstairs I found him rifling through my bookshelf, toys, and closet. And playing with a yo-yo in my room. The second time I came upstairs he confronted me. "You have a lot of knives sitting around in your room." He said. "No," I replied. "I don't." He led me back into my room and showed me the knife collection that had apparently been left on my bookshelf. The camping knife from the top of the shelf, the pocket knife from my desk, the pocket knife from my backpack, the dive knife from the dive bag in the closet--all unsheathed and unfolded. It was beyond him, apparently, to figure out how to put them away.

Or, you know, to just not go through somebody's things in the first place. I find myself consistently disappointed in the parents I see these days who seem to be unable to control their children. Is it so hard to discipline your kids? To instill a sense of boundaries and proper behavior? This kid was going into 6th grade and he, for whatever reason, felt he had the right to go through everyone's personal belongings. We were apparently not the only family who fell victim to his marauding.

I put my hand on his shoulder and firmly guided him out of my room. "I'm not entirely sure what makes you think you're entitled to go through my things," I said softly. "But I can assure you that you are absolutely not. You are not welcome in my room, you are not welcome upstairs, you are not even welcome on the stairs." I continued guiding him down the stairwell as I spoke. "You can sit on the sofa in the living room for the remainder of your visit," I said. "And if you get up from it for any reason, we will have a serious problem. Am I understood?" He looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes. "Yes." He said. "Yes?" I asked. "Yes, sir." He said.

And, to his credit, he stayed on the sofa until he went home.

Comments

Carolynn said…
You're either going to be an awesome dad or a scary dad someday.
July 15, 2010 at 12:15 AM
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