You may have seen or at least heard about the Florida father who stormed his daughter's school bus to yell and swear at (and threaten) the kids that were picking on her. He's now facing charges--and rightly so--for his outburst. So I'm not going to defend him. What he did was wrong. But it was also a little understandable, and I'll admit to many moments in my years of being a mother when I have wanted to throttle a child who has hurt one of mine. And each time, I've taken as many deep breaths as are necessary to calm down, and I've reminded myself it's not the child's fault completely; it's also the parents' fault.
I watched the video today, followed by an interview with, as she was labeled, the "mother of one of the accused bullies." She said that she didn't speak to her son that way, so it was upsetting to see this man do so.
And here's what I thought: "Maybe you should have spoken to him that way. Maybe that you never have is the problem."
Now, I'm not an advocate of screaming and swearing and threatening to kill your own child (or anyone else's), but I am a fan of discipline, which comes in all sorts of varieties: punishment, consequences, etc. And I'm an even bigger fan of making sure my kids have received that discipline at home so they won't have to hear it from strangers on a school bus. I owe it to them.
Because that's one of my roles as a parent--protecting them from the bullies on the bus.
I read an article today about how it's become popular to not just not have children but to, as the author put it, "hate" children. Seems a pretty strong word, doesn't it? So I followed several of the links the article took me to, and here's what I found.
1. Childless couples are tired of feeling pressure to have children.
2. Childless couples are tired of feeling overrun by ill-behaved children.
And I'm okay with their gripes on both counts. I think if more people felt less pressure to procreate, we'd have fewer unhappy children. And as a mother of four kids, I'm no more a fan of a screaming child in a restaurant than someone without any kids is.
And for those people who do simply hate children? Well, then I suppose we simply have to agree to disagree. I won't take offense at your opinion and I won't offer you mine. And if my child's mere presence is upsetting to you then we can both be grateful we have our own homes to return to at the end of the day.
But I digress.
What that article and the story about the Florida father have got me thinking about today is how we're too often afraid of our own kids. Afraid they won't like us if we ground them. Afraid they won't speak to us for a few days if we take away their privileges. Afraid the neighbor will gasp in horror if our raised voices carry over the fence and into her backyard. Afraid we won't be cool anymore. Afraid we'll be inconvenienced if they can't go to a friend's house, because that means we can't go out to dinner after all. Afraid we'll have to spend some of our precious and dwindling energy on figuring out how to deal with them. Afraid to admit they didn't come out perfectly in spite of their rich gene pool. Afraid of the possibility that their love for us doesn't extend to a desire to please us in all things always. Afraid--and this is a big one--someone will think we don't love our children if we sometimes can hardly bear to be around them.
I'm not begging for a return to the age of kids being seen but not heard. But I am begging for a return to the mentality that said it's okay to expect something from children--and from ourselves--regardless of how hard we think it might be. Because it's only going to get harder for all of us.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Just Trying to Help
My eleven-year-old son is a bossy little thing. I'll take part of the blame for that and not necessarily because I'm bossy but because I ask him now and then for help, like, "Can you go make sure the kids (meaning my eight- and five-year-old children) are brushing their teeth?" or cleaning their rooms or getting their cereal. So he's learned to believe he's an extension of me. If he thinks I would or wouldn't want the younger kids to do something then he'll step in and take over: "Put that down now. Put. It. Down. NOW!" or "Why aren't you wearing shoes to ride your bike? You know you should wear shoes. Put them on. Put. Them. On. NOW!" And he always uses my mean voice even when I wouldn't use it. But that's because he's a child of extremes, which I don't take credit for at all. He was born with that little personality trait. He's a good kid--a helpful kid. Just perhaps a little too helpful at times.
This afternoon, the 5yo asked for a juice box. Within two minutes, my older son and he were yelling back and forth at each other. I begged them to stop. "But I'm just trying to help him put the straw in!" the 11yo said in near tears. "Did he ask for help?" I said. "No. But I was just trying to help!"
When I was around five, my brother that was fourteen at the time had a moped bike. One afternoon, he tied a rope to the bike and tied the other end to my red wagon. Then he told me to get in. Being five and seeing only the free and fast ride I was going to get down the road (rather than the inevitably bad and abrupt ending to that ride), I did as I'd been directed to do. I climbed in. Danny started the moped and off we went. He picked up speed. And then my body met the graveled pavement. I slid and flipped and ended up with scrapes and cuts all over my arms and legs and face. It wasn't fun for either of us, although I know he just wanted to help me have a good time. He wasn't being cruel or bossy. He was being a big brother.
I try not to be an advice giver. My mother doesn't give advice, even when you ask for it. Opinions? Sure. But advice? Not so much. So I've always tried to take after her in the restraint she shows. It's become harder as I've gotten older and, in my opinion, much wiser. I have very sage things to share with those who will listen, so why would I want to keep such precious pearls to myself? Surely I can enrich the world if it will only open up its ears and wait for my next quotable moment.
The answer is that most people can figure out how to skin their knees and face and elbows on their own. And they can get that straw into the juice box on their own . . . eventually. And because my idea of 'helping' might be your idea of 'interfering.'
And I know it's hardest to remain restrained when the advice you most want to give is the advice you most need to keep to yourself, and when the person to whom you desperately want to give that advice is someone you love. But if you end up making the rope too long or too short or you don't take into account the potholes or the rocks along the road, you won't be helping. You'll be hurting. And not all wounds like that are going to heal.
I'm just sayin' . . . and I'm just trying to help.
This afternoon, the 5yo asked for a juice box. Within two minutes, my older son and he were yelling back and forth at each other. I begged them to stop. "But I'm just trying to help him put the straw in!" the 11yo said in near tears. "Did he ask for help?" I said. "No. But I was just trying to help!"
When I was around five, my brother that was fourteen at the time had a moped bike. One afternoon, he tied a rope to the bike and tied the other end to my red wagon. Then he told me to get in. Being five and seeing only the free and fast ride I was going to get down the road (rather than the inevitably bad and abrupt ending to that ride), I did as I'd been directed to do. I climbed in. Danny started the moped and off we went. He picked up speed. And then my body met the graveled pavement. I slid and flipped and ended up with scrapes and cuts all over my arms and legs and face. It wasn't fun for either of us, although I know he just wanted to help me have a good time. He wasn't being cruel or bossy. He was being a big brother.
I try not to be an advice giver. My mother doesn't give advice, even when you ask for it. Opinions? Sure. But advice? Not so much. So I've always tried to take after her in the restraint she shows. It's become harder as I've gotten older and, in my opinion, much wiser. I have very sage things to share with those who will listen, so why would I want to keep such precious pearls to myself? Surely I can enrich the world if it will only open up its ears and wait for my next quotable moment.
The answer is that most people can figure out how to skin their knees and face and elbows on their own. And they can get that straw into the juice box on their own . . . eventually. And because my idea of 'helping' might be your idea of 'interfering.'
And I know it's hardest to remain restrained when the advice you most want to give is the advice you most need to keep to yourself, and when the person to whom you desperately want to give that advice is someone you love. But if you end up making the rope too long or too short or you don't take into account the potholes or the rocks along the road, you won't be helping. You'll be hurting. And not all wounds like that are going to heal.
I'm just sayin' . . . and I'm just trying to help.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Waiting
I've been thinking lately about how much of motherhood is about waiting.
Waiting for him to be born.
Waiting for him to sleep through the night.
Waiting for her to take her first steps without me holding her hand.
Waiting to hear her first words.
Waiting for her to learn to read.
Waiting for him to start kindergarten.
Waiting for 3:30 so I can see him again.
Waiting for her to come sit with me so we can read together.
Waiting for him to talk to me and tell me how his day went.
Waiting for her to walk beside me again and hold my hand.
Waiting for him to get home so I can fall asleep, knowing he’s okay.
Waiting to remember what it was like before they were born, to remember what my hobbies are, to remember how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve potty-training techniques or immunizations or how to get them to clean their rooms.
Waiting to be a little less sad about watching them grow up—something I’ve been waiting for and also dreading.
Waiting for him to be born.
Waiting for him to sleep through the night.
Waiting for her to take her first steps without me holding her hand.
Waiting to hear her first words.
Waiting for her to learn to read.
Waiting for him to start kindergarten.
Waiting for 3:30 so I can see him again.
Waiting for her to come sit with me so we can read together.
Waiting for him to talk to me and tell me how his day went.
Waiting for her to walk beside me again and hold my hand.
Waiting for him to get home so I can fall asleep, knowing he’s okay.
Waiting to remember what it was like before they were born, to remember what my hobbies are, to remember how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve potty-training techniques or immunizations or how to get them to clean their rooms.
Waiting to be a little less sad about watching them grow up—something I’ve been waiting for and also dreading.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Family Writing
My mother recently sent me a box of old family letters, documents, and photos. And I mean old old. Some of them date back to the mid 1800s. I've been going through the box slowly, because that's what old handwriting requires: patience. And the authors more often than not wrote in pencil. Not sure why. Cheaper, perhaps? Easier, as now, to correct mistakes? But the result is faded messages that often involve a lot of guess work and reliance on context.
Here's one of my favorites:
February 18, 1898
Mr. Givens,
Dear Sir,
Could you inform me if any of the friends of John Givens want the clothing he left here? There is not very much of value, but I think it would be well to have some disposition made of them, as the last time I looked to them the moths were at work in them. Has anything been done about removing his body? May I hope to hear from you soon?
Very kindly yours,
Mary E. Persons
My cousin, who knows much more of our family history than I do, said John had died young--in his 20s--and had been staying at Mary's boarding house not too far from his family's farm. I don't know how he died. I don't know what ever became of the body. I don't know what poor Mary was doing with it in the meantime. At least it was cold that time of year in upstate New York. Perhaps John had a spot on the back porch while waiting for someone to come get him.
I found an old dance card from 1886--no names filled out on it. Makes me wonder why not.
There's a letter my grandmother wrote to her mother:
Nov 8 1907
Dear mamma.--
I though I would write to you to let you know that I am well and hope you are the same. we are going to bucher the 20. and I wish you could be hear to eat sausage and buckweatcakes. we would have a good time. grandpapa bought me a winter cap though I tell you it is a good one I can pull it way down over my ears in winter I can wear it. grandpapa is going to get me a pair of rubbers for my felts. I have a good pair of felts. all that I need is a pair of rubbers. Our well has lots of waters in we don't have to go up to sams any more. am I glad of that. grandma did not help me write my letter. I can write my letters alone now I go to school every day. I like my teacher. I will soon be in my fifth reader. I am in language the teacher said If I would she would put me in the a grammar to.
There was no envelope for this one, so I only know my grandmother was in Locust Ridge PA--no clue at all where her mother was. And I wonder why they weren't together. I'm sure my grandmother missed her, so I'd like to know the story.
I'm glad to have the bits and pieces now at least. It's wonderful to touch the fragile paper, look at the pictures of people I don't recognize, and to know we're all connected.
I was going through some of my own old papers yesterday and came across a notebook from third grade. It was a science glossary I'd had to keep and then a bird journal. All of it was in cursive--same as the letters my ancestors wrote. I showed my daughter the notebook when she got home. She's in third grade now . . . and she couldn't read it because she hasn't learned cursive. And chances are she won't--at least not much.
One of my kids' teachers this year said that this year's freshman college students are the first class that will not have been required to learn cursive in school. It's a lost "art" now, no longer necessary in the age of emails.
Knowing that and then going through these old family records and even my own homework from grade school has made me realize that not only are we losing touch with each other in this era of technology--an era that's here to stay--but we're losing touch with our past. If my daughter can't read my handwriting, how would she ever manage that of her great-great grandparents, aunts, and uncles? And what will she be leaving behind for her own great-great grandchildren, nieces, and nephews? A hard drive?
I read an article this morning that asserted that children who do practice their handwriting even for ten minutes every day before they begin work at school are calmer, more focused, more ready and able to learn. Maybe it's a limited pool the study draws from. Maybe it's not a large enough study to warrant the attention of public elementary schools. But what can it hurt, those ten minutes of writing?
My daughter has been wanting to "do" something besides soccer and Brownies and piano this fall. So now I know what that something will be. I'm going to teach her cursive, because I refuse to be the last generation of my family that knows the previous generations.
Back to my dusty old box.
What lost arts do you miss or that you have made an effort to not lose in the first place? And why?
Here's one of my favorites:
February 18, 1898
Mr. Givens,
Dear Sir,
Could you inform me if any of the friends of John Givens want the clothing he left here? There is not very much of value, but I think it would be well to have some disposition made of them, as the last time I looked to them the moths were at work in them. Has anything been done about removing his body? May I hope to hear from you soon?
Very kindly yours,
Mary E. Persons
My cousin, who knows much more of our family history than I do, said John had died young--in his 20s--and had been staying at Mary's boarding house not too far from his family's farm. I don't know how he died. I don't know what ever became of the body. I don't know what poor Mary was doing with it in the meantime. At least it was cold that time of year in upstate New York. Perhaps John had a spot on the back porch while waiting for someone to come get him.
I found an old dance card from 1886--no names filled out on it. Makes me wonder why not.
There's a letter my grandmother wrote to her mother:
Nov 8 1907
Dear mamma.--
I though I would write to you to let you know that I am well and hope you are the same. we are going to bucher the 20. and I wish you could be hear to eat sausage and buckweatcakes. we would have a good time. grandpapa bought me a winter cap though I tell you it is a good one I can pull it way down over my ears in winter I can wear it. grandpapa is going to get me a pair of rubbers for my felts. I have a good pair of felts. all that I need is a pair of rubbers. Our well has lots of waters in we don't have to go up to sams any more. am I glad of that. grandma did not help me write my letter. I can write my letters alone now I go to school every day. I like my teacher. I will soon be in my fifth reader. I am in language the teacher said If I would she would put me in the a grammar to.
There was no envelope for this one, so I only know my grandmother was in Locust Ridge PA--no clue at all where her mother was. And I wonder why they weren't together. I'm sure my grandmother missed her, so I'd like to know the story.
I'm glad to have the bits and pieces now at least. It's wonderful to touch the fragile paper, look at the pictures of people I don't recognize, and to know we're all connected.
I was going through some of my own old papers yesterday and came across a notebook from third grade. It was a science glossary I'd had to keep and then a bird journal. All of it was in cursive--same as the letters my ancestors wrote. I showed my daughter the notebook when she got home. She's in third grade now . . . and she couldn't read it because she hasn't learned cursive. And chances are she won't--at least not much.
One of my kids' teachers this year said that this year's freshman college students are the first class that will not have been required to learn cursive in school. It's a lost "art" now, no longer necessary in the age of emails.
Knowing that and then going through these old family records and even my own homework from grade school has made me realize that not only are we losing touch with each other in this era of technology--an era that's here to stay--but we're losing touch with our past. If my daughter can't read my handwriting, how would she ever manage that of her great-great grandparents, aunts, and uncles? And what will she be leaving behind for her own great-great grandchildren, nieces, and nephews? A hard drive?
I read an article this morning that asserted that children who do practice their handwriting even for ten minutes every day before they begin work at school are calmer, more focused, more ready and able to learn. Maybe it's a limited pool the study draws from. Maybe it's not a large enough study to warrant the attention of public elementary schools. But what can it hurt, those ten minutes of writing?
My daughter has been wanting to "do" something besides soccer and Brownies and piano this fall. So now I know what that something will be. I'm going to teach her cursive, because I refuse to be the last generation of my family that knows the previous generations.
Back to my dusty old box.
What lost arts do you miss or that you have made an effort to not lose in the first place? And why?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Rose by Any Other Name . . .
I hate bugs. I know they serve their purposes. I know they're necessary to the ecosystem. I know some of the ickier ones do their best to eradicate some of the ickiest ones. I get it. It's nothing personal. I just hate them.
I've become SO much more girly over the years that it's embarrassing. As a kid, I spent as much time outdoors as indoors--and I'm including the hours I slept. I made forts in the woods and in the snow. I tramped through brush and leaves and vines without thinking twice about what was crawling on me: ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, Daddy Long Legs (or Granddaddy . . . take your pick). I had zero awareness of the dirt under my nails, the bites on my legs, the grass stains on my knees. I didn't even bother brushing my own hair until I was eleven. The difference between my fifth and sixth grade pictures is a testament to this fact.
By eighth grade, I was hesitant to let even my friends see me without mascara. Okay, so I've gotten a little less self-conscious since then. But not much.
Bugs, however? Hate 'em.
Although I'm okay with ladybugs. They're pretty and delicate. And come on . . . they're LADYbugs. They behave. They have manners. They don't skitter across your path or crawl across your face at night or bite you (don't contradict me if that last one isn't true, by the way; I couldn't take the news). My husband asked me recently if I'd feel different about them if they were called what they are: beetles. Yes. Yes, I would.
One of the bugs I hate the most, and my heart is palpitating just thinking about them, are house centipedes. I'm going to be brave for a second and show you what I'm talking about in case you're not the house-centipede-aphobe I am.
Ack! These bugs do NOT behave. They're sneaky and fast and flat enough that they slide under a cabinet or through a crack in the basement wall before you have the chance to grab a shoe--a really big shoe. Or a boot. Even better.
Honestly, though, if someone started to call them Feather Dusters, I might be able to take it. Daddy Long Legs don't freak me out. But call them vibrating spiders--another name for them--and all bets are off. Vibrating? In a bug? It's just wrong!
Roly poly bugs are okay, but I won't go hunt for them with my kids. Have you seen them up close? REALLY up close?
Yeah . . . not so cute and cuddly anymore, are they?
Same with worms. I know how irrational it is to be creeped out by them. They're not exactly going to sneak up on me or crawl up my leg. But they're gross. So I'm a little prejudiced there. Sorry.
Inch worms? Okay, so those are cute. Maybe my affection for them stems from my love for Richard Scarry's books. I know Lowly Worm is an earth worm, but he looks like an inch worm. And he smiles all the time. What's not to love?
Speaking of names (and not bugs here), my in-laws had a name picked out for my husband before he was born: Dylan. And then when he was born, so the story goes (so they told me, and if you're reading this, Mom, feel free to correct me), they decided he was so ugly he needed a tougher name--a truck driver kind of name. So they dubbed him Ron.
He turned out quite well, I have to say--quite far from the ugly baby he once was.
Before he and I met, my sister described me to him as "cute and perky--like her name." If I went by Roberta instead of Bobbie, who knows? He might have seen me as a beetle instead of a ladybug. Names can make all the difference in the world.
I've become SO much more girly over the years that it's embarrassing. As a kid, I spent as much time outdoors as indoors--and I'm including the hours I slept. I made forts in the woods and in the snow. I tramped through brush and leaves and vines without thinking twice about what was crawling on me: ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, Daddy Long Legs (or Granddaddy . . . take your pick). I had zero awareness of the dirt under my nails, the bites on my legs, the grass stains on my knees. I didn't even bother brushing my own hair until I was eleven. The difference between my fifth and sixth grade pictures is a testament to this fact.
By eighth grade, I was hesitant to let even my friends see me without mascara. Okay, so I've gotten a little less self-conscious since then. But not much.
Bugs, however? Hate 'em.
Although I'm okay with ladybugs. They're pretty and delicate. And come on . . . they're LADYbugs. They behave. They have manners. They don't skitter across your path or crawl across your face at night or bite you (don't contradict me if that last one isn't true, by the way; I couldn't take the news). My husband asked me recently if I'd feel different about them if they were called what they are: beetles. Yes. Yes, I would.
One of the bugs I hate the most, and my heart is palpitating just thinking about them, are house centipedes. I'm going to be brave for a second and show you what I'm talking about in case you're not the house-centipede-aphobe I am.
Ack! These bugs do NOT behave. They're sneaky and fast and flat enough that they slide under a cabinet or through a crack in the basement wall before you have the chance to grab a shoe--a really big shoe. Or a boot. Even better.
Honestly, though, if someone started to call them Feather Dusters, I might be able to take it. Daddy Long Legs don't freak me out. But call them vibrating spiders--another name for them--and all bets are off. Vibrating? In a bug? It's just wrong!
Roly poly bugs are okay, but I won't go hunt for them with my kids. Have you seen them up close? REALLY up close?
Yeah . . . not so cute and cuddly anymore, are they?
Same with worms. I know how irrational it is to be creeped out by them. They're not exactly going to sneak up on me or crawl up my leg. But they're gross. So I'm a little prejudiced there. Sorry.
Inch worms? Okay, so those are cute. Maybe my affection for them stems from my love for Richard Scarry's books. I know Lowly Worm is an earth worm, but he looks like an inch worm. And he smiles all the time. What's not to love?
Speaking of names (and not bugs here), my in-laws had a name picked out for my husband before he was born: Dylan. And then when he was born, so the story goes (so they told me, and if you're reading this, Mom, feel free to correct me), they decided he was so ugly he needed a tougher name--a truck driver kind of name. So they dubbed him Ron.He turned out quite well, I have to say--quite far from the ugly baby he once was.
Before he and I met, my sister described me to him as "cute and perky--like her name." If I went by Roberta instead of Bobbie, who knows? He might have seen me as a beetle instead of a ladybug. Names can make all the difference in the world.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Aaahhhh
Ron and I spent Labor Day weekend putting our yard back together. A few months ago, we had twenty feet of sewer line replaced, and finally the ground settled enough that we could put the walkway along the side of our house back in and then . . . the landscaping. I mentioned in an earlier post how much I dread gardening because the pressure of what goes where is just too much for me. So we went to a nursery for a little professional help.
By the end of Saturday, my entire body was aching. Sunday morning I needed ibuprofen just to get out of bed. But we got back out there and finished the job today. It's been one of the most satisfying few weekends I've had in a long time, because there is nothing like the feeling of accomplishment.
And that's a feeling we don't get to experience much these days--we, meaning society. Us. People. The economy stinks right now, but even those with jobs don't love them. At least most of them don't. Sure, they might appreciate them--might appreciate being able to pay rent or to buy groceries or have a little leftover to put into a child's college fund. But enjoy our jobs? Not so much.
I came across this list of the top 300 jobs with the highest job-satisfaction ratings. Top of the list is "Singer." Okay, so not a lot of professional singers out there relative to the population. So let's skip them. Number two is "Municipal Fire Fighter."
The rest in the top ten are as follows:
3. Aircraft Assemblers
4. Pediatricians
5. College Professors - Communications
6. Education, Vocational, and School Counselors
7. Managers/Supervisors of Animal Husbandry & Animal Care Workers
8. Criminal Investigators & Special Agents
9. College Instructors - Other
10. Therapists - Other
A lot of people-helping-people (and -animal) jobs in there. In fact, the top twenty is crowded with them. And aside from the Pediatrician, we're not talking jobs that pay a whole heck of a lot here. So where are the surgeons? The lawyers? The financial analysts? Hm. Give me a minute as I scan the list . . . doo-dee-doo . . . Sorry. It's taking me a minute here. Ah. There they are. Surgeons: #219. Lawyers: #268. Financial Analysts: #300.
Bus Drivers--that's right Bus Drivers--have more job satisfaction than lawyers. Orderlies have more job satisfaction than surgeons. And tax preparers have more job satisfaction than financial analysts.
So we all know money can't buy love or happiness or even a decent t-shirt from the Gap these days. This isn't news.
But I think it's not just helping people that makes us happy: it's the feeling of accomplishment, of going home at the end of the day and feeling like you got something done--and being recognized for having done something. We need that a lot more than we want to admit.
We hire people to mow our lawns. We hire people to walk our dogs--to clean up our dogs' poop, for crying out loud! We hire people to shovel our 8X2 sidewalk, to wash our windows, to make our dinner, to paint our nails, to bake our kids' birthday cakes. So we can have time to what? Feel dissatisfied because we just spent 8 hours doing something that will never make us feel like we actually finished anything?
So do something this week. And finish it. You'll be happier for it. I promise. Maybe not richer, maybe not able to walk without wincing thanks to those shooting pains in your back from shoveling topsoil for hours . . . but happier.
By the end of Saturday, my entire body was aching. Sunday morning I needed ibuprofen just to get out of bed. But we got back out there and finished the job today. It's been one of the most satisfying few weekends I've had in a long time, because there is nothing like the feeling of accomplishment.
And that's a feeling we don't get to experience much these days--we, meaning society. Us. People. The economy stinks right now, but even those with jobs don't love them. At least most of them don't. Sure, they might appreciate them--might appreciate being able to pay rent or to buy groceries or have a little leftover to put into a child's college fund. But enjoy our jobs? Not so much.
I came across this list of the top 300 jobs with the highest job-satisfaction ratings. Top of the list is "Singer." Okay, so not a lot of professional singers out there relative to the population. So let's skip them. Number two is "Municipal Fire Fighter."
The rest in the top ten are as follows:
3. Aircraft Assemblers
4. Pediatricians
5. College Professors - Communications
6. Education, Vocational, and School Counselors
7. Managers/Supervisors of Animal Husbandry & Animal Care Workers
8. Criminal Investigators & Special Agents
9. College Instructors - Other
10. Therapists - Other
A lot of people-helping-people (and -animal) jobs in there. In fact, the top twenty is crowded with them. And aside from the Pediatrician, we're not talking jobs that pay a whole heck of a lot here. So where are the surgeons? The lawyers? The financial analysts? Hm. Give me a minute as I scan the list . . . doo-dee-doo . . . Sorry. It's taking me a minute here. Ah. There they are. Surgeons: #219. Lawyers: #268. Financial Analysts: #300.
Bus Drivers--that's right Bus Drivers--have more job satisfaction than lawyers. Orderlies have more job satisfaction than surgeons. And tax preparers have more job satisfaction than financial analysts.
So we all know money can't buy love or happiness or even a decent t-shirt from the Gap these days. This isn't news.
But I think it's not just helping people that makes us happy: it's the feeling of accomplishment, of going home at the end of the day and feeling like you got something done--and being recognized for having done something. We need that a lot more than we want to admit.
We hire people to mow our lawns. We hire people to walk our dogs--to clean up our dogs' poop, for crying out loud! We hire people to shovel our 8X2 sidewalk, to wash our windows, to make our dinner, to paint our nails, to bake our kids' birthday cakes. So we can have time to what? Feel dissatisfied because we just spent 8 hours doing something that will never make us feel like we actually finished anything?
So do something this week. And finish it. You'll be happier for it. I promise. Maybe not richer, maybe not able to walk without wincing thanks to those shooting pains in your back from shoveling topsoil for hours . . . but happier.
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