Kim-Marie Ward
I love 3M's Post-It Notes, and keep a stack of colorful pads
always near at hand. They're good for flagging edits on a
manuscript, for communicating with others in my home when we're
busy living separately during the day, or for jotting down phone
numbers, grocery lists, and sudden bursts of inspiration for
story-writing. But the best use I ever found for them was when
my son was in elementary school. I discovered they were great
parenting tools.
It was driving me crazy that the sink in the bathroom always
looked atrocious every time I walked in there. It looked great
every time I stepped out of the washroom, but rarely did it look
so pristine on entering. There was usually some crusty feeling
stuff on the taps and not only did the grunge drive me crazy,
but having to remind my son about it time and time again, nearly
drove me insane. I'd wash the crust off, rewash my hands, then
turn to dry my hands on a towel, only to find the towel marred
with whatever my son had supposedly washed off his hands
earlier.
It was frustrating and annoying. No matter how many times I told
him to clean the taps off and use towels for drying his hands,
not for wiping dirt on them, the bathroom was still like that
several times a day. I told him he'd lose a day on the computer
every time I found it like that. It didn't work. He lost the
computer for a week and nothing changed, and even when he was
off the computer, it was still like that. He was getting used to
hearing his name pronounced in a way only an irate mother can
pronounce her child's name (we're quite skilled at drawing out
the syllables for effectiveness).
Or he'd be playing online or off, and as soon as he heard the
tone of his name in that way, he'd say, "Oh, sorry, sorry," rush
to take care of it and get back to playing with his toys, or hop
back on the computer chair and tap away at the keyboard.
Since the computer was his favorite "toy," I set up a schedule
of times he was allowed to be on it, and would take away
privileges a half hour at a time. That didn't work. He was fine
with losing his comp time because he'd simply go draw pictures
or play with his toys. Still the grungy bathroom problem
continued.
I was getting sick and tired of being upset with him over such a
trivial thing, yet I hated that it seemed my hands got messier
trying to clean them, than they had been before I started!
Finally, I grabbed a brightly colored Post-It, and wrote on it,
"Ha Ha! I am dirt and grime and I don't want you to play on the
computer! I play dirty! Ha ha ha ha!" I added a little picture
of a grime spot with a mean smile. I stuck that one on the
mirror in front of the tap. I took another Post-It of a
different color and wrote "I am NOT a back-up washcloth! I'm a
towel. Please use me to dry clean hands. Don't clean them on me!
I drew a little crying towel.
It was working! No more grime, no more leftovers on the towel .
. . but the other towel was then being used for cleaning. I
stuck up another note and wrote "I'm a towel too! Please no dirt
and grime!" I drew a trembling towel with a grime monster about
to devour him.
After that day, the bathroom was always nice and clean and the
towels lasted on the rack more than half a day, and I didn't
have to say a word.
Neither of us mentioned the notes until about a week later when
I put a little reminder note up for myself in the kitchen (which
I do frequently) and he said, "You're sure into notes these days
huh? Like in the bathroom?"
"Yes," I replied. "I saw those, too. But I'm not a towel, and
I'm not dirt and grime, so please don't think they're from me."
He laughed, gave me a hug and said "You're such a cool mom." I
took the compliment for the rare wonder it was, and we never
brought the notes up again.
For a few years more, the Post-Its Patrol kept our home in
tip-top shape: over a coat rack, "Please may I hold your coat
for you?"; above the laundry hamper, "I'm not full yet, more
clothes please!" The notes were all over the house until my son
was able to remember certain chores and responsibilities without
reminders. Even his cousins and friends abided by the Post-It
Patrol's rules. Best of all, I didn't have to nag my son for
those things to get done.
Now that my son is a teenager, the notes are gone and the walls
around here are a lot less colorful, but it's a fair trade for
raising my son in a home where yelling is rare, arguments are
discussed in respectful tones and chores are actually done. I
don't know if I could have managed it without a little help from
my Post-Its.
About the author:
Kim-Marie Ward is a freelance editor of both non-fiction books
and fiction novels, a ghostwriter, and has written several
articles for various ezines and newsletters (online and in
print). She's an active member on http://www.Writing.Com, an
online community for Writers. Stop by and visit
her portfolio at: Kim-Marie on
Writing.Com.
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