Published: July 17, 2008 06:45 pm            

STAWAR: What parents don’t know

It is really difficult to be far away from your children when they’re sick or in trouble, regardless of their age. As a parent you have to be constantly on duty and that doesn’t change just because your kids grow up, go away to college, or take jobs across the country.

My wife Diane and I know a woman who has a daughter working in New York City. A couple of weeks ago the girl had to have minor surgery and we were talking about how hard it is not to be there. This hit close to home, because their child is only a few years older than our youngest son, who is also in New York.

Last week while we were at our granddaughter’s birthday party, our son called and very reluctantly told us that he had cut his hand at work and asked us how to take care of it. Of course he didn’t go to a doctor and was intent on minimizing it. We always worry that he won’t tell us when there’s something wrong. He usually doesn’t volunteer much information, if we don’t ask our questions precisely. I’ve learned to be especially suspicious when he says “not really,” as in “Having any trouble on the job?” “Not really.” or “Are there problems with your girlfriend?” “Not really.”

Maybe he takes after me. From an early age I worried about upsetting my parents. When I was about 9 years old I had this chemistry set. Back then it was perfectly acceptable to give youngsters cute little bottles of highly corrosive chemicals, sharp glass implements and highly flammable elixirs. I had actually made some gunpowder and was well on my way to synthesizing nitroglycerin when my supplier of nitric acid went out of business. This chemistry set was my favorite toy, next to the metal molds, that I poured molten lead into to make toy soldiers. My father told me to be safe and always wear my asbestos apron and gloves when making lead soldiers.

My chemistry kit came with an alcohol lamp that was used to heat up chemicals and bend glass tubing. One day in the course of my usual researches into explosives and deadly poisons, I accidentally knocked over the lamp and flaming alcohol ran down the wall. I realized that this was not good and that I should tell my parents, but I was afraid that they would get upset. So I went into the living room where they were watching television and in a calm voice, as inconspicuously as possible, said “I think my room is on fire.” Turning his attention away from Marshall Dillon, my father said, “What? What did he say?” My mother said, “Did he just say that his room is on fire?” When my meaning sunk in, there was the general hullabaloo that I had tried in vain to avoid.

I can recall another occasion when I was a little less than forthright with my parents. My fourth grade Sunday School teacher, Mr. Brown, was perhaps the oldest man in town. He worked for years at a small private airport and even at his advanced age, he still flew a plane. One Sunday at the end of class he offered to take us for a ride in his airplane. This sounded like the greatest thing that would ever happen to me. He drove us home and we were supposed to run in and get permission from our parents and then we would all go to the airport for lunch and the plane ride. Well, there was the rub. I just knew my parents would never let me go on an airplane, piloted by someone who was obviously living on borrowed time. But I just had to go, I firmly believed that this would be my only chance to ever ride in a real airplane. So I went into the house and quietly asked my mother if I could go on a picnic and for a ride with my Sunday School teacher. I conveniently omitted the uncomfortable facts that the teacher was Mr. Brown, the picnic was at the airport, and the ride was in a Cessna 170. My mother said yes and before she could ask any more questions, I was out the door and up into the wild blue yonder. I knew that I was being sneaky, but I couldn’t think of any punishment I wouldn’t risk for an airplane ride. I guess I had figured this was one of those times when it is best to ask for forgiveness than permission.

I remember actually flying over my house, seeing my father’s car on the street and thinking, this has got to be the coolest thing ever. I also thought no one will ever believe me and my parents are going to kill me.

I thought of all of this when our son said the cut was only about an inch long. What was he leaving out? When I asked him if it hurt and he said “not really,” I really started to worry. Before Diane could dial 911 in New York City, he sent us some pictures of the cut over his cell phone. The first photo was a gruesome close-up that made it look like a machete wound. Without thinking I inconsiderately shoved the picture in front of Diane, who as you might have expected, immediately lost her ability to eat birthday cake.

The second photo put the cut in some perspective and it appeared somewhat smaller than we had initially thought. Our son-in-law who is an emergency veterinarian said that the cut looked kind of deep and maybe our son might need some antibiotics and perhaps one of those cardboard Elizabethan collars, so we insisted that our son go to a clinic. I know he thought we were being hysterical, but we both had that intense queasy feeling you have when your children are little and they are running a high fever. It doesn’t go away until the fever breaks.

Our son called back a few hours later, indignant and self-justified because the nurse at the clinic didn’t think the cut needed a stitch. But they did clean it out and even took an x-ray to make sure there weren’t any glass fragments in the wound. I hope that this experience doesn’t prevent him from sharing even less in the future.

Our older children have occasionally told us some of the things that they withheld from us when they were younger, like the time they rolled over the go-kart and never told us. Until we told him that we had heard enough, our oldest son started into a detailed account of his college road trip to Mardi Gras.

Perhaps Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young offered the best advice for these situations in their 1970 hit, “Teach Your Children Well.”

“Don’t you ever ask them why

If they told you, you would cry

So just look at them and sigh”



Terry L. Stawar, Ed.D. lives in Georgetown and is the CEO of LifeSpring in Jeffersonville. He can be reached at tstawar@lifespr.com or 812-206-1234.

        

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