God bless Mrs. Cratchit. Bob is trying to toast Scrooge as the benefactor of the Cratchit family's meager Christmas celebration, and his wife is having no part of it. She's pissed and ready to unload a little of her anger on Bob. In defense of Mrs. Cratchit, she has been cooking all day for her family. She's probably tired and cranky.
Last night, my entire family was tired and cranky. My wife is still adjusting to her new job. My daughter had dance classes for four hours in the evening. I was at my office on campus until almost 8 p.m. Those are the ingredients for a pretty rotten night. We were sniping and yelling at each other. My daughter was crying because her feet hurt and she didn't want to take a shower. By bedtime, I found myself making this declaration: "Nobody talk to anybody for the rest of the night!"
Granted, my solution was probably not the most constructive way of dealing with the general cloud of grumpiness pervading the house, but it did the trick. The shouting and screaming stopped, and all that was heard for the rest of the night were quiet sobs. I was able to fall asleep.
Of course, I'm not a big believer in the use of verbal abuse. Sometimes, however, venting your frustrations can be a very freeing act. Ask Mrs. Cratchit. There was a book published last year, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, in which the author, Amy Chua, made this statement: "The solution to substandard performance is always to excoriate, punish, and shame the child." Chua literally bullied her daughters into success.
I'm sure not too many child rearing experts would agree with Chua's methods. However, you can't argue with Chua's results: her older daughter, Sophia, was accepted by Yale and Harvard and is currently attending Harvard. Results. I'm not saying I'm going to start calling my daughter a piece of garbage because she can't play Mozart on the piano, but I think there's something to be said for strict parenting. My mother and father were fairly strict, and I ended up with two advanced college degrees (a Master's in fiction and an MFA in poetry). Of course, I can't do anything with those degrees except cook hamburgers and chicken strips, but I have a first-rate education.
Maybe tiger women like Amy Chua and Mrs. Cratchit got it right. I mean, Tigress Cratchit is just trying to give Bob a little backbone to stand up to his boss. So what if a few tears are shed in the process. Or self-esteem takes a few blows. Or therapy is needed.
If Saint Marty's daughter ends up winning a Nobel Prize in medicine or economics, it will all be worth it.
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| Just call me Tiger Father |
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