The summer streets of Washington D.C. are crowded with tourists, government officials, and the people who work them daily. My nine-year-old son and twelve-year-old daughter are just about done with all things important to see.
We are here for a quick get-away to visit our friends, the Millers. They are excellent tour guides and can pack in “the good stuff” from the all the museums. We weave in and out of Smithsonian buildings hitting the highlights and avoid wandering aimlessly to happen upon something exciting. A quick glance at the Hope Diamond, Dorothy’s Ruby Red Shoes, Oscar’s trash can, the Wright Brother’s plane, the Star Spangle Banner, Jackie Kennedy’s inaugural gown, Lincoln’s iconic top hat. . . you get the idea. We would have searched hours, but the treasures are viewed one after the other keeping my kids interested and happy.
No trip to D.C. would be complete without Ford’s Theater, and our tour guides part ways with us when my son gets sucked into history. The story of Lincoln’s assassination fascinates him and we spend a couple hours poring over every detail of Lincoln’s last day. Nothing pleases me more, and I congratulate myself on parenting these two wonderful young humans as I watch them respectfully listening to tour guides.
“Would you like something from the gift shop to help us remember today?” I generously usher them towards purchases before exiting the building.
We have a long walk to get back to the parking garage before our three-hour drive back to Jersey. The whining starts the first block. “How much farther?” The fussing joins the second block. “He keeps running into me.” The all-out fight approaches on the third block. “Give me back my book. Mom, she won’t give me back my Lincoln Book!” All my parental pride melts away as the shine on our perfect day turns, like an old green copper penny bound for Oscar’s trash can.
Ugh. It was such a lovely day. I wish just once we could all get along and I wouldn’t have to discipline my kids on a crowded street of our nation’s capital. How does one even do that? I can’t stick them in a time out; we’ve got to get to the parking garage. I’ve got no privileges to take away right now, and besides I don’t want to threaten some future grounding that’s just as much punishment for me. I hold to the theory that discipline should be the natural consequences of one’s actions, and this stuff is making me feel embarrassed. What would be the natural consequences of embarrassing your mom and getting on her nerves? Hmmm. Do I dare?
“Listen you two. Cut out the whining and the fussing or I’ll start singing opera at the top of my lungs right here in public.” The sidewalks are full of the casual and the busy trying to get to their next stop on this crowded street. I wonder if they are ready for an impromptu serenade.
My kids look at me. They look at each other, then back at me. I see a smirk starting on Brad’s face and then Em says, “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t? I’ll never see these people again in my life. You better believe I would!”
They start poking each other and whining again to try me out. I take a deep breath and belt out the first thing that comes to mind in my highest, strongest, most operatic soprano ever. “OOOOOOOOOk-lahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. . .”
From this moment on I’ll have the most well-behaved children in public. All it will take is the soft singing of a long O vowel and me saying, “You know I will. . .”
Your Turn: How do you deal with second-hand embarrassment?
Cute, I can just picture their faces!