An Iron Ranger's View: Kids' ingenuity carries on in next generation

Sibling rivalry peaked often at our house, but Shirley and I agreed early in our marriage we wouldn't use spanking to stop the struggles between our kids. We knew spanking could break their spirits and stifle their very competitive natures. So we dealt with their petty misbehaviors by giving them stern words and 20 minutes of quiet time in their rooms.

One day when the boy was 7 and the girl was 5, sibling rivalry reached a new high with an argument over a Pac-Man watch.

"Cut it out, you two," Shirley said. "Learn how to share. Learn how to get along."

They didn't heed Shirley's advice, and the argument continued.

"Get back to your rooms," I said in a commanding voice. "Leave the Pac-Man watch here. You'll get it back in 20 minutes. Then you better learn how to share it."

So with the head-hanging posture of kids who are wrongly disciplined, they went to their rooms. After about five minutes, a loud "twannnnggg" reverberated through the house.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Sounds like it came from the basement," Shirl said.

So I went down and checked the furnace and the water pump. Then it dawned on me that there was nothing wrong in the basement. The boy had twanged his flexible, baseboard-mounted doorstopper. I came upstairs and told Shirley what I thought.

Just then, there was an answering twang from the other bedroom. The girl had figured out what her brother had done. They had formed a silent pact against us.

For the next five minutes there were a number of twangs and answering twangs.

"I'm going back there and taking out those doorstops," I steamed. "When they're being disciplined they shouldn't be allowed to cause more trouble."

"Wait," Shirl said. "We've always tried to raise those kids to be brave and to be creative thinkers. Then when they do it, you get mad."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"By twanging their doorstoppers they're telling us they disagree with our decision to discipline them. It's called passive resistance. They instinctively chose passive resistance because they know they can't beat us in a face-to-face confrontation. Let's just pretend we don't hear the twanging."

Twenty years later, Shirley and I were baby-sitting our daughter's boys. After lunch of the first day, the 3-year-old went into the bathroom, and I heard the door lock click. Fifteen minutes passed, and he still didn't come out. But I could hear water running.

"What are you doing in there, Thomas?" I asked.

"Nothing, Poppy," he said.

"Open the door, Thomas," I said.

"I'm not done yet, Poppy," he said.

So I jimmied the lock and opened the door.

"Thomas Edward Haggard," I said sternly. "You've got water all over the floor. You get back to your room while Nana and I clean this mess."

So Thomas walked dejectedly back to the room that had been his mother's so many years ago. I heard the door shut. Shirl brought in some towels and we started soaking up the water. After about five minutes, a loud "twannnnggg" reverberated through the house.

Shirl and I were both down on our knees soaking up water when we heard it. We looked into each other's eyes. Shirl broke into spontaneous laughter. Her face had that surprised look people get when they are confronted by something ironic. She put her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Then it dawned on me what she was laughing about, and I started laughing, too. We just barely regained our composure in time to open the door to get who, we hoped, would be a very repentant Thomas.

Joseph Legueri of Gilbert is a writer, a retired educator and a lifelong Iron Range resident.