Scaring Kids.

How many times should us parents scare the lovin’ be-Jesus out of our kids? Or should we let them make their own mistakes, smile at their jokes, mmm at their observations and commiserate when they miserate? Should we treat them as friends, equals, fellow dudes and congratulate them for being mature beyond their tender years due, no doubt, to our excellent parenting? Or should we figure we’re doomed to failure and settle for just doing the best we can? Of course this includes loosing one’s rag from time to time as they unintentionally hit a nerve, but does it include cold, calculated scaring them witless, or even my father’s, ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you’ thigh slaps? We weren’t buddies then. Well maybe. But there are times when mistakes loom that seem perfectly acceptable to a young mind. Sex, drugs, speed are all great, with experience. Laziness, unawareness and mindless fun are all fine so long as they’re balanced with hard work, growing experience and the recognition one has to clean up afterwards. But they can all be traps for the happily wandering young soul that can take years to escape from. Now one can’t have compare and contrast conversations with those who haven’t read the book, one can only feign anger and say forcefully but calmly, “WELL READ THE BLOODY BOOK THEN!” or when the situation arises, “Don’t EVER do THAT again!” Fear has a chastening effect that gets to places other beers, sorry conversations don’t get. Sometimes it’s necessary, if for no other reason than that children will outwit you given an even playing field. My kids are eminently sensible, hard working and thoughtful. They don’t smoke or drink much and I’m still not a grandfather. Perhaps I overdid it.