Sunday, October 09, 2005
Grounded
Throughout my childhood, I spent a great deal of time in my room--involuntarily. I grew up in a home with parents who, of all things, wanted my sisters and I to grow up respectful, responsible, and capable. In other words, they wanted to raise us to be boring. To this end, my mother and my step dad developed a huge set of rules and corresponding punishments. My parents had rules for bed times on school nights, rules dictating which shows I was allowed to watch (or, more accurately, which ones I was not allowed to watch), and rules that governed the myriad chores my sisters and I were assigned. There was always a "don't" and I was constantly being told to finish my homework and to eat all my veggies (although I rarely had to obey both orders simultaneously).
In our home, the most used punishment for disobeying the rules was grounding, and, contrary to what one might assume from the amount of my childhood spent confined to my room, I did not like being grounded. A brighter kid might have figured out that it was better to obey or at least how to keep from getting caught and grounded, but I was not a very bright kid.
At my house, grounding was a miserable experience, unlike at my rich friend Tony's house. Tony was my next door neighbor, the son of ultra-liberal parents. Tony would have to do something major to get grounded--like shooting someone without warning them first. Me? I could get in trouble for not asking to be excused after belching our national anthem (isn't it proper ettiquite to wait for the applause to die down before addressing the audience again?).
On the rare occasion Tony did get grounded, he was forced to spend time in his room or in his yard. Being rich, though, he had a lot of cool stuff in his room and a really big yard. His room contained an Atari game system (yes, I am that old), a color TV, a VCR, a stereo, a phone, remote control cars, etc. His yard had a tree house, a basketball court, and a target range and all the equipment necessary to enjoy these amenaties. Sure he couldn't go anywhere, but why in the world would he want to?
At my house, things were different. Like Tony, I couldn't leave the house, but unlike him, I couldn't play in my yard and I didn't have any cool stuff in my room. And even if I did, I wasn't allowed to use it. In my house, being grounded meant no phone, no TV, no leaving the house, no friends over--nothing. I even had to ask permission to breathe. So it goes without saying, I was violently opposed to groundings. But as a 12-year-old, my desire for freedom superceded my distain for being grounded.
I wanted to be free to go wherever I wanted to go, to eat anything I pleased, and to spend time with friends of my own choosing. When I discussed this (rationally) with my mother, suggesting that these things would be possible if she would relax the rules, fix all the meals herself, do all the chores, and provide me with a steady and sizable source of income, she assured me that she would comply just as soon as she won the lottery. Funny, I never saw her buy a ticket.
Among the rules I hated with a passion were the after-school rules. My older sister, MeLynda, and I were "latch key" kids. Every day we came home to an empty house and our after-school rules. The first rule dealt with watching our younger sister Angie. The second and third dealt with homework and chores. Before we goofed off, we had to get our chores and homework done. I had a difficult time with these two rules because I was a 12 year old boy. If you should come across a 12 year old boy who happens to like these things (or even one of the two), please get him psychological help right away. The fourth and fifth after-school rules ensured that, even if we did get our other stuff done, we'd spend the rest of our afternoons bored out of our skulls until our mother got home. These rules restricted us from leaving the house and from having friends over unsupervised.
Well, one particular afternoon, a couple of friends came to our door and asked us if we wanted to learn to walk on stilts with them. Of course we wanted to (see, they had caught on--they didn't ask if we were allowed to, but if we wanted to). So, ignoring the rules, my sisters and I left the house and went around the corner to our friends' house. As we were practicing falling off the stilts (I have to admit, humbly, I was the best at the impromptu dismount with my patented face-stop maneuver) a photographer from the local news paper strode over to us with a camera. He said was looking for interesting pictures for the next day's paper and asked if we'd like to be in it. Now, as I indicated earlier, I was not very smart. The possibility of getting caught never entered my mind. Why would it? Common sense dictated that the best stilt-walker would get his or her picture in the paper. That would be MeLynda's friend, Laurie. The man took lots of pictures of all of us and our varying stages of success, wrote down our names, thanked us, and left.
The next day, we received our paper, and who do you think was on the front cover? Laurie with her perfect balance? Of course not. It was me! There I was in glorious black and white falling off the stilts while MeLynda laughed in the background. Now, remember, I was not too bright. Instead of hiding the paper or spilling paint on the front cover like a smart kid would've, I ran right up to my mother and said, "Hey Mom, look who's on the front cover of the news paper!" as I thrust it into her hands.
And, of course, you know what that got me, don't you? Yep, grounded--again. In my defense, I must say that, if my parents hadn't made so many rules, I wouldn't have gotten in to nearly as much trouble as a child. Oh well. It's almost all in the past now. They said I was grounded 'til I turned 40. That means I've only got 4 more years to go!
In our home, the most used punishment for disobeying the rules was grounding, and, contrary to what one might assume from the amount of my childhood spent confined to my room, I did not like being grounded. A brighter kid might have figured out that it was better to obey or at least how to keep from getting caught and grounded, but I was not a very bright kid.
At my house, grounding was a miserable experience, unlike at my rich friend Tony's house. Tony was my next door neighbor, the son of ultra-liberal parents. Tony would have to do something major to get grounded--like shooting someone without warning them first. Me? I could get in trouble for not asking to be excused after belching our national anthem (isn't it proper ettiquite to wait for the applause to die down before addressing the audience again?).
On the rare occasion Tony did get grounded, he was forced to spend time in his room or in his yard. Being rich, though, he had a lot of cool stuff in his room and a really big yard. His room contained an Atari game system (yes, I am that old), a color TV, a VCR, a stereo, a phone, remote control cars, etc. His yard had a tree house, a basketball court, and a target range and all the equipment necessary to enjoy these amenaties. Sure he couldn't go anywhere, but why in the world would he want to?
At my house, things were different. Like Tony, I couldn't leave the house, but unlike him, I couldn't play in my yard and I didn't have any cool stuff in my room. And even if I did, I wasn't allowed to use it. In my house, being grounded meant no phone, no TV, no leaving the house, no friends over--nothing. I even had to ask permission to breathe. So it goes without saying, I was violently opposed to groundings. But as a 12-year-old, my desire for freedom superceded my distain for being grounded.
I wanted to be free to go wherever I wanted to go, to eat anything I pleased, and to spend time with friends of my own choosing. When I discussed this (rationally) with my mother, suggesting that these things would be possible if she would relax the rules, fix all the meals herself, do all the chores, and provide me with a steady and sizable source of income, she assured me that she would comply just as soon as she won the lottery. Funny, I never saw her buy a ticket.
Among the rules I hated with a passion were the after-school rules. My older sister, MeLynda, and I were "latch key" kids. Every day we came home to an empty house and our after-school rules. The first rule dealt with watching our younger sister Angie. The second and third dealt with homework and chores. Before we goofed off, we had to get our chores and homework done. I had a difficult time with these two rules because I was a 12 year old boy. If you should come across a 12 year old boy who happens to like these things (or even one of the two), please get him psychological help right away. The fourth and fifth after-school rules ensured that, even if we did get our other stuff done, we'd spend the rest of our afternoons bored out of our skulls until our mother got home. These rules restricted us from leaving the house and from having friends over unsupervised.
Well, one particular afternoon, a couple of friends came to our door and asked us if we wanted to learn to walk on stilts with them. Of course we wanted to (see, they had caught on--they didn't ask if we were allowed to, but if we wanted to). So, ignoring the rules, my sisters and I left the house and went around the corner to our friends' house. As we were practicing falling off the stilts (I have to admit, humbly, I was the best at the impromptu dismount with my patented face-stop maneuver) a photographer from the local news paper strode over to us with a camera. He said was looking for interesting pictures for the next day's paper and asked if we'd like to be in it. Now, as I indicated earlier, I was not very smart. The possibility of getting caught never entered my mind. Why would it? Common sense dictated that the best stilt-walker would get his or her picture in the paper. That would be MeLynda's friend, Laurie. The man took lots of pictures of all of us and our varying stages of success, wrote down our names, thanked us, and left.
The next day, we received our paper, and who do you think was on the front cover? Laurie with her perfect balance? Of course not. It was me! There I was in glorious black and white falling off the stilts while MeLynda laughed in the background. Now, remember, I was not too bright. Instead of hiding the paper or spilling paint on the front cover like a smart kid would've, I ran right up to my mother and said, "Hey Mom, look who's on the front cover of the news paper!" as I thrust it into her hands.
And, of course, you know what that got me, don't you? Yep, grounded--again. In my defense, I must say that, if my parents hadn't made so many rules, I wouldn't have gotten in to nearly as much trouble as a child. Oh well. It's almost all in the past now. They said I was grounded 'til I turned 40. That means I've only got 4 more years to go!
Labels: grounded, in trouble, stilts
Post a Comment