Of Beef Jerky and Milk (FTT #97)

In my last post, I may have made the life of a parent seem too easy.  At first glance, my account of the Rule of Seven makes it seem as though the battle-weary papa or mama has only to make a list of everything the rowdies should remember, bring them in one by one, and repeat each item on the list seven times.

Would it were so simple.

What complicates the situation is that, in kiddiedom, commands are self-expiring.  Every order papa issues contains within itself an expiration date, so the moment it enters a childish ear the count-down begins.  My seven-fold “Shut the door” injunction went bad, so to speak, exactly one hour later:  it ceased to have any authority, as though it had never been spoken.  It arrived in the juvenile mind with a label, “Best if used before 7:00 p.m.,” and by 7:01 it wilted and turned to ash.  Grandpa began yelling at children as they breezed in and out, “Number eight:  Shut the door when you go through!”—but with just as little effect as when the evening began.

By contrast, all permissions last forever.  They are like forever stamps, redeemable no matter how many years have passed.  If a child be once allowed to take a paper cup from the downstairs shelf, then three years later that child will freely help herself to paper cups without asking.  If commands are like unpasteurized milk, permissions are like beef jerky.

So if a tired mama begins with 683,812,076 problems, she can apply the Rule of Seven to bring it down by one almost instantly.  But one hour later—perhaps twenty-four hours, if she is particularly impressive about it—the problem will be back.  And in the meantime, every permission she grants will become a problem at some point within the next five years.

683,812,077 and counting….

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The Rule of Seven (FTT #96)

On a mild but sultry day we stepped down the hill to visit Grandpa and Grandma for dinner.  The air conditioner was running, but we could hardly tell because all six kids ran in and out the door and never, ever—not even once—shut the door behind them.  One or another adult always shouted after them, “SHUT THE DOOR!” but it didn’t seem to make any impression.

Then I remembered what our new college president, Kevin Roberts, explained at a meeting yesterday.  In the advertising business, an old rule of thumb dictates that people need to hear something seven times before they remember it.

So the next time a child blew inside and left the door swinging behind, I stood her in front of me, solemnly explained the Rule of Seven, and then said:

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.

“Close the door when you come through.”

And by golly, that child shut the door from then on.  So I gave “the treatment” to the next child and to the one after that.  Since the youngest can’t open the door by herself, only two children remained who still left the door open.  But by that point, one of the three “treated” kids always came behind to fix the situation.

That was easy.  One problem solved, 683,812,075 to go.

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Tomorrow is Corpus Christi

The holy council declares, moreover, that the custom that this sublime and venerable sacrament be celebrated with special veneration and solemnity every year on a fixed festival day, and that it be borne reverently and with honor in processions through the streets and public places, was very piously and religiously introduced into the Church of God. For it is most reasonable that some days be set aside as holy on which all Christians may with special and unusual demonstration testify that their minds are grateful to and mindful of their common Lord and Redeemer for so ineffable and truly divine a favor whereby the victory and triumph of His death are shown forth. And thus indeed did it behoove the victorious truth to celebrate a triumph over falsehood and heresy, that in the sight of so much splendor and in the midst of so great joy of the universal Church, her enemies may either vanish weakened and broken, or, overcome with shame and confounded, may at length repent.

– Council of Trent, Session XIII, ch. 5

Our local parish is going to have a Corpus Christi procession.  I hope nobody vanishes weakened and broken, but a bit of repentance here and there would be great.

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