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"You're Not The Boss Of Me!" will Be the Death of You

Toronto (April 27, 2009) -- When I was a whole lot younger, and medicine was more art than science, quarantines were something everybody knew well.  When somebody woke up feverish, bleary-eyed and most especially itchy, the doctor was called and more than likely he pronounced Measles, Chicken Pox, Scarlet Fever, or some other contagious disease had hit the household and then he added, "You can expect the Board of Health around this afternoon."  Sure enough, the man with the big yellow sign with QUARANTINE in black letters was soon hammering on the porch and everybody inside was stuck with one another's company until the doctor gave leave and the sign came down.  We kids thought it was kind of cool to have that sign on our house -- it meant that nobody could come in and our friends and relatives had to talk to Mama through the closed window or even better by semaphore (until we got a phone) and nobody could talk to us at all.  Of course it also meant that all five of us were likely to come down with whatever it was that started the Quarantine, and that Mama was trapped with us for a month until the All Clear was sounded, when we would be fumigated and scrubbed within an inch of our convalescent lives and finally given a certificate to come back to school.

Five years ago our city suffered an outbreak of a virulent and deadly respiratory disease called SARS.  The typical socialist knee-jerk response was denial that anything was happening, refusal to implement anything like a quarantine and pray that it would all go away.  Forty people including nurses and medical personnel had died before quarantines began to be ordered, and it took one communicable man with an attitude whose appearance at work regardless caused his 350 person plant to be closed down for two weeks before the police started enforcing that quarantine and finally the dying stopped.

Two years ago a major mumps outbreak occurred at a university in the Maritimes.  With typical socialist forethought, the school eschewed quarantine and sent the students back home to spread their germs broadcast throughout the country.  Those who came back to the GTA were given instructions that mumps was dangerous and they should quarantine themselves until the infection period was past.  "You're not the boss of me!" they shrieked and immediately went clubbing, sharing their germs boardcast and causiing friends and strangers alike unnecessary suffering, sterility and damage to sight and hearing.

Now it's Swine Flu, which so far is confining itself mainly to Generation Yners and which has already killed more than 100 people and sickened 16,000 more -- of the generation who refuse to believe that disease can kill or cripple them or their friends and neighbours, not to mention the people they jam up against on the subway or shove their way past into the grocery store. Quarantine?  Get real!  "You're not the boss of me!" they will shout as they take their germs to the hockey arena, the night club, the grocery store, the restaurant, and the subway station. "Wash my hands?  Make me!  Carry a handkerchief? In your dreams!  If I want to cough and sneeze all over you, that's my right!  And who are YOU to tell me to wash my hands?  How about the blood of the First Nations you've got up to your elbows? Get outa my [expletive] face, you [expletive]!  IGOTTARIGHT to do and go anywhere I please and YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!"

Having lived through contagious illnesses of every hue and cry, and seen school friends and their families die of or be crippled by same, I have a different view.  I have to admit I am kind of enjoying seeing the IGOTTARGHT generation going without work and losing their houses, cars, boats and cottages when they find out that what goes up always comes down and doesn't care whom it hits.  I wish it wasn't going to take the same kind of two-by-four upside the head to teach them that germs operate just the same way.  You may look a germ in the eye and tell it "You're not the boss of me!" but that germ knows better.  And just like the modern day racing driver who jumps out of his car and starts yelling that the guy he just hit tried to kill him, there are ways these days of tracking the accident or the illness back to you.

So in case any of you are listening, Yners, when somebody tells you that it's time for a quarantine, do as you're told for once and go to your room.  After all, you will still have your binkie, your computer, your webcam and your twitter to keep you company. 

Not to mention your germs. 
 
 
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Talk

Toronto (April 14, 2009) -- I was talking to Mama last night, and she was telling me about my grand-niece Emilee, who is a strong-willed toddler approaching the age of 18 months.  "She's really starting to talk," said Mama, "and she has stopped screaming and crying so much.  I believe she's been frustrated because she had so much to communicate and no way to do it."  She paused, then added, "Like you were."
 
As I was thinking of this, I read yet another How To Take Control Of Your Kids column and I wondered why something that simple continued to elude parents -- not to mention aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbours, brothers, sisters and friends.  What you have to do to "take control" of your kiddie is start talking to her the day she is born.
 
The error people continue to make, that parents used to know before Electronics replaced Though, is in assuming that a child cannot reason until she can talk.  Babies understand a lot more than you think, from the day they are born.  So if you want some control over the way that child goes, start directing her pathway before you bring her home from the hospital.  Talk to her, read to her, instruct her.  Sit her in her little booster seat on the kitchen table and instead of switching on the teevee and allowing her future to be shaped by Oprah, Montel, and The Young and The Worthless, give her a little direction and something to think about.  Tell her stories, comment on the news of the day, explain to her what you are doing, and give her instructions.  Do not assume she has no idea what you are talking about and therefore it's no use telling her anything.  She may not understand the words just yet, but she does understand that Mommy believes she is worthy of attention, and that Mommy is including her in daily life, and that Mommy does not think she is an inert blob of protoplasm to be moved from here to there and mostly not of any interest except if she's crying or spitting up or filling her diapers.  Hold up a carrot and say, "Watch me peel this carrot," and then open the top of the vegamatic and say, "Now I chop it up and put it in the vegamatic, and make sure to put the top on tight, and push the button, and --- carrot juice!"  Susie hears your voice, sees the carrot and the vegamatic, hears the whirring of the blades, and tastes the carrot juice.  She is learning about her world, and at the same time she is learning that Mommy thinks learning is interesting and that Mommy thinks she can learn.

When you sit down to read the paper, read it aloud to Susie.  Most people can't read aloud worth hearing these days; it will be good practice for you, and Susie is an uncritical audience.  Read her a chapter of "The Cat Who Saw Stars" or of Dr. Sowell's latest tome, or a couple of paragraphs of P.J. O'Rourke.  Read from your 1950s copy of Dr. Doolittle (before it was sanitized for her protection) or "Half Magic" or "Swallows and Amazons" or whatever was your favourite childrens' book when you were ten or twelve years old.  (Provided it was not about vampires, anorexia or divorce.)  For an extra relaxing treat, get a really good recording of Messiah (I recommend Sir Thomas Beacham) and sing the choruses along with it.  Or if you prefer, one of the Gilbert & Sullivan CDs -- HMS Pinafore or The Mikado may be the easiest -- and sing her one of the patter songs. Never mind if you can't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow.  Susie has never heard Beverly Sills; it's all new to her.  

And when Junior comes home from school, encourage him to do the same -- talk to Susie as if she's his own age, show her his new gadget that will run across the table and turn corners when he claps his hands, tell her about what happened in school, give her a taste of his ice cream, a crumb of cheese, or a tiny bit of Orangina.  Everyone should treat the baby as if she is a functioning human being from the day she is born, and expect her to behave like one of the family ... but that means paying attention to her when she tries to communicate, too.  When she makes a face at the Orangina, notice it and say, "Oh, you don't care much for that?"  making a face back at her.  If she smiles and coos at the sound of "A Wandering Minstrel I", comment, "Oh, you like that so much you are singing along!" and sing a few notes so she connects the dots.  Encourage her to express herself: to point to what she wants or look at it before she can point, but say, "Tell me what you want," or "tell me what you see" and give her the words for it, with an encouraging, "Do you want a drink?  Do you want to see the duckie?" or whatever it is she seems to want to communicate.  And above all else, expect her to try. 

It's way too late to teach a child to follow family values and rules when she is two or three years old.  By that time she has already absorbed your opinion of her, your opinion of her brothers and sisters (and of the cat and the dog and her Daddy), and has already figured out that  all she needs to know she has learned from Oprah, Montel, and "Two and a Half Men."

That's my secret in the proverbial nutshell: if you want to have some say in the way your child should grow, you have to start sooner to teach her that she is a child, a person, and a member of the family.

You'll be surprised when she starts to speak plainly how much she has already learned.
 
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