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April 30, 2006

Grimm reality

By Michelle Martin

I think my kids really would have liked “The Kingdom of Grimm,” the new offering from Chicago Playworks for Young Audiences. (See review, Page 25.)

Unfortunately, they didn’t get the opportunity to see it.

Their behavior, and my tolerance of it, collided in the hour before we were supposed to leave to see a Saturday matinee.

What did they do? Probably no more than usual. They picked on each other and fussed at each other and talked back to us and just couldn’t stop when we told them to.

Stop, I said to Caroline, or you won’t get to see the play. Sit down and be quiet.

But she couldn’t stop, telling me she didn’t do anything and it was all her brother’s fault and she didn’t mean to hit him—she was just swinging her arms as he walked by.

So I told her she would, indeed, have to stay home, launching an avalanche of tears and apologies, which Frank tried to comfort with hugs.

But when she didn’t accept his comfort, and went on to blame him for her troubles (and, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely blameless) his hugs turned to pinching, and he was grounded as well.

To make matters worse, I still had to see it, and they had to come with as my husband dropped me off at the theater.

The whole ride downtown, they seemed to think there was a chance I would change my mind. Caroline started defiant—“I didn’t want to see it anyway—and then begged and pleaded. “I would give up anything to see this play. I would give up my life.”

Frank stuck to quieter sobbing.

I got out of the car, feeling something like the Wicked Witch from any number of fairy tales. That feeling stuck with me through the whole play, a brisk and bouncy confection with the not-so-hidden moral that it’s better to be hardworking, generous and loyal than not.

Apparently, my suffering lasted longer than theirs. My husband reported that the tears stopped within three blocks of dropping me off, and they were fine by the time they got home 10 minutes later. The tears, though mostly genuine, evaporated when they had no effect.

And, I know, I’m to blame for much of the drama anyway. Too often, I fail to follow through on the consequences I have set for misbehavior. The dirty little secret about discipline is that it’s harder to impose it than to live under it. I don’t like taking privileges away from my kids because I like the way we usually do things. No bedtime snack or story? But that’s my favorite time of day. No going on a planned outing? But I’m usually looking forward to it at least as much as they are.

So when they tried to get me to change my mind, they had a reasonable expectation that it might work. This time it didn’t, and I’m resolved that next time it won’t either, or the time after that, or the time after that. But maybe I’m wrong.

As I read the Scriptures, I see time after time when God told the Israelites what they had to do to keep their part of his covenant, and time after time where they failed—as individuals and as a nation. Like a parent, he warned them and warned them, but only rarely smote them with the kind of force you’d expect (the Great Flood and the Babylonian exile come to mind).

Of course, I am not all-powerful and all-knowing, and I have a relatively short time to help my kids grow up to the kind of loving generous people I want them to be. I hope, with God’s help, they will grow up well and forgive me my mistakes.

Michelle Martin is a Catholic New World staff writer.