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Any compliment from a 15-year-old son will turn a woman's head. I came by this one only after I had learned to keep my mouth shut a few weeks earlier. Before then, my pre-breakfast talk was full of correctives:
"Donna!" (That's our 13-year-old.) "That blouse doesn't match your skirt. Go change. And while you're at it, take that rat's nest out of your hair."
"Laurie!" (That's our 6-year-old.) "Those socks don't match your dress. How did you scuff your shoes so badly? Come on, you'll never make it to school on time."
"David, why are you wearing that shirt? I just bought you five new ones for school. I was already using the one you're wearing to dust furniture."
"But I'm comfortable in this one," he moaned. "It's as soft as a handkerchief."
"Handkerchiefs are for blowing noses," I said.
"That's why I like this one," he snorted.
"Laurie!" I screeched as she came back through the door. "I said to change your socks, not your dress. And Donna, you cannot wear that white lipstick to school. You look like a ghost."
About that time, my husband shouted from the bathroom, "Can I come out for inspection now?" I decided that I didn't like his tone of voice, so I fried his egg very hard. But he was wearing a smile when he put his arms around me while I was standing at the sink.
"Hmm, you sure look pretty this morning, Honey," he said. He said that even though I was in my robe and curlers, with my drill-sergeant face intact. His compliment silenced me long enough to make me think about how I had been talking to my kids.
"Why criticize?" I asked myself. Why was it so important for Donna's blouse to match my taste? Her clothes were clean, her skirt was not too short, and she thought it looked fine. Now, that is important. Surely at 13 she should have some sense about what to wear or I've been doing a poor job for more than a dozen years.
I soon found that the early-morning hassle with Laurie could be solved by both of us selecting her clothes at night and putting them where she could find them in the morning. And I concluded that as soon as a pretty girl smiled at David, he would start to wear his new shirts.
I decided to throw in one more ingredient. Surely, since these children were part mine and part my husband's, they must have some good qualities. I decided that if I couldn't say something nice, I would say nothing at all (unless their lives were in danger). I would not resort to phoney compliments--kids are too smart for that--but I would give real, honest ones.
Not long after that, we were watching an old movie that included a group of teenagers from my generation. Donna said, "Wow, Mom, even the teenagers looked old in your day! Look at those dark red blobs they all wore on their mouths."
"I guess you're right, Donna," I said, noticing that the girls looked like they were all mouth. Then I added, "I guess your lipstick looks just as good as that, if not better."
The next day, I found Laurie trying to polish her shoes while wearing them. The brown polish was all over her white socks. All I said was, "Your shoes are going to look very nice."
She grinned and said, "Yeah, but I'll have to change my socks."
My hunch was right about David. Suddenly his sisters, who shared the same bathroom in the mornings, were pounding on the door trying to pry him from in front of the mirror. He looked especially neat every morning, and I made a point to tell him. He grinned and thanked me. One morning, David turned to Laurie and said, "You look nice this morning. Everything matches." From then on, compliments seemed to be contagious. One kind remark from a person seemed to prompt a compliment for someone else.
Not that everything is perfectly harmonious. A family doesn't operate that way, because human nature doesn't. I would be alarmed if our son went around complimenting his sisters all the time. And I would be suspicious if our 13-year-old told her 6-year-old sister how nice she was all the time. But after Donna has called Laurie a little brat all day, it's refreshing when she later says, "Honest, Laurie, that looks nice on you."
There are times when I am sorry that I vowed to keep my mouth shut. There are times I want to say, "David, your shoes need polishing. They look like the hoofs of a cow and not the leather." Or, "Donna, I think you should wear that blouse tucked in instead of out. It makes you look fat." Or, "Laurie, your blue sweater will match that dress better."
I am starting to see, however, that when I compliment rather than nag, I motivate my children to think and act well. They, in turn, encourage their siblings to do the same. It's a practical way of loving our neighbour as ourself.
Rita Robinson is a freelance writer living in Big Bear City, California.
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