An endless supply of ass beaters

What makes a good mother?  The range of answers are limitless depending on who is asked.  I write this because my sister and my own goodness as a mother is constantly questioned.  Who questions our ability to be a good mother?  Surprisingly, it is our own father.  

Walt apparently feels he is the ultimate dad.  He seems shocked when anyone gives their opinion otherwise.  I will take a journey down memory lane and give an accurate portrayal of Walt as our father.  This is not written with the intention of making our father look bad, but instead to point out where mistakes were made and how a different approach to child-rearing would have made all the difference.

My earliest recollection of Walt’s approach to parenting began at five years of age.  Our dad worked full-time and always came home immediately after the office closed.  My mother always had dinner prepared and we would sit down for a meal at the dining room table.  As I grew older and became vocal about what I liked to eat versus disliked, it became a problem.  We were ordered to eat everything on our plates, Lima beans included.  As dinner dragged on I would move my beans around on the plate hoping dad would finish up and we kids could make an escape.  Some dinners that was the case, others we weren’t so lucky.  Reality is, Lima beans wouldn’t hurt us and eventually we ate our way through.

At the age of nine my brother Joe and I learned Mom was pregnant.  We were surprised but happy to hear the news.  Mom apparently missed the sound of crying babies and needed another round at child-bearing.  Susan entered the world in 1979 as the first intentional child.  The following year everyone was surprised to hear mom was pregnant again.  Sam rounded out our family of six and the house became very cramped.  

Over the years an alliance was created between we children and mom.  We all felt the sun rose and set on her and she was our best friend.  She encouraged us in all that we tried and made us feel special.  I don’t recall her using physical violence to punish us as that was dad’s specialty.  In my early teen years dad made a cricket bat and used it as a paddle to “keep us in line.”  Seriously, a cricket bat?  Wasn’t having all four of your children scared to death of upsetting their father punishment enough?  

The cricket bat was put to use often.  Dad was proud of this corporal form of punishment and even had the bat hanging from a nail on wall as a constant reminder to behave.  We all feared the Walt and having our ass beat with the bat.  Our solution was to be as far away from home as possible to avoid punishment.  Of all the ass beating we received I doubt any of us could recall what our offenses were.  I would even bet money that our father could no longer recall.  Around my mid-teen years I was deemed guilty of some action and off the wall the bat came.  I remember trying my best not to cry when I received a paddling.  Hindsight, I should have began crying as soon as dad went to retrieve that damn bat, but I was just to determined to prove he could not “hurt me.”  The reign of the cricket bat came to an abrupt end when a crack across my ass broke it in two.  Dad was not discouraged by this in the least.  He just trimmed the broken edge off and declared it “The Paddle.”  For additional intimidation he drilled holes in it and informed us this would create less wind resistance on his swing.  The paddling continued and created a permanent memory of growing up under the dictatorship of Walt.

Living in fear of a parent is a piss poor way to grow up.  All four of us never felt we were “good kids” in our father’s eyes.  Our achievements never seemed to impress him and after enough time passed, we no longer cared what dad thought.  That leads to our current lives.  With little to no choice to live elsewhere, three of us had to move back with our parents.  We are all adults now and find it extremely uncomfortable living under Walt’s roof.  He doesn’t have the ability to butt out of our lives and consistently gives his unsolicited opinion on our activities, ability to raise our children, how to spend what little money we have, who to be friends with, etc.

He regularly tells Susan she is stupid and will never be able to take care of herself.  As if this wasn’t bad enough, dad tells his grandson that he has two things working against him in life: his mom and his dad.  Now Blaine is at the tender age of seven and the last thing he needs to hear is negative comments about his parents.  Seven year old boys act up just as my five year old daughter does.  Walt’s solution to these short-lived fit pitches….”beat that kid’s ass!”  

There is no ass beating going on at the Crider household these days.  I will not tolerate it even once.  Growing up with the constant threat of physical punishment caused me to dislike and not trust my father.  Time-outs are the modern solution where no physical pain is involved and problems with a child’s attitude can be resolved peacefully, sitting on a chair in the corner.  No amount of ass beating will lead to a child stating they had a good parent.

I know I am a good mom.  I also know that Susan is a good mom.  How do I know this?  Our children want to be with us.  They are thrilled with the time they share and demand more.  Time is love to a child and they can never get enough.  So ask yourself, “Do my children want to spend time with me?”  If you answer yes, than you are on the right track.  All three of my children flock to me.  My sons are well past childhood age and still come as often as possible, at times three or four days, to visit.  My mom is happy when they arrive and make her laugh at their silliness.  My dad….well…somethings never change.  He is unhappy that his grandchildren come to visit.  They take up to much room in the house for his happiness.  Dad doesn’t keep this to himself either.  Zeth feels uncomfortable coming to visit anymore and limits his weekend trips.  It breaks my heart my sons feel unwelcome but it doesn’t surprise me.  As the children of Walt, none of us ever felt welcome either.