FAMILY MATTERS
When I'm on the telephone, kindly leave me alone
By Ka'ohua Lucas
I had spent the last half-hour driving in complete silence — serenity in its purest form.
I was in such a state of tranquility I even smiled at the speed-cam operators who had their van parked on the grassy median on Likelike.
My youngest son was busily sketching a football player running out for a pass while my eldest sat immersed in a book from the Redwall Series.
The radio was off.
The silence was bliss.
As I pulled into the driveway, our two dogs bounded over, greeting us with wet kisses and muddy paws.
Then, I heard the shrill screech of the phone.
I made a dash for the front door hurdling one of the dogs, just grazing their water bowl as I stumbled up the front steps. Fumbling with my keys, I jiggled the door open just in enough time to answer the call on the fourth ring.
"Aloha," I answered out of breath.
It was a business call. I sneaked into my home office to keep the background noise at a minimum. I was deep in conversation when my 7-year-old popped his head in and mouthed the words, "I'm hungry."
I waved him off, knowing he would understand my signal to help himself.
I must have been on the phone for no more than two minutes when the 11-year-old marched into my office. "My brother is eating cereal. Does that mean I can have some, too?" he asked, ignoring the handset plastered to my ear.
Covering the mouthpiece I hissed, "Yes," in a surly half-whisper.
I had just confirmed with my caller that her school group would be able to visit the fishpond on the date she requested when I heard a yelp.
"Stop it!" my 7-year-old yelled.
Hoping my caller had not heard the obvious, I rushed out of the office to see my youngest son sitting at the dining room table in tears. Milk dribbled onto his shirt, and his mouth was wide open in a silent wail displaying the remains of his chewed-up cereal.
His brother was sitting passively at the table reading the back of the cereal box as he munched on Honey Nut Cheerios.
If I had been my father, the boys would have already fled the scene.
When my dad was on a phone call, he demanded respect — and that was in the form of complete silence.
I remember — all too well — what happened when I ignored that rule.
My younger brother and I one afternoon had had a disagreement, and we were jousting with makeshift weapons (his, a flashlight, mine, a barbecue fork).
Furious, my father calmly asked his caller to hold and began hurling items at us that were within his reach: Nails, pencils, a carpenter's tape measure, two screwdrivers and a small hammer flew at us like bullets.
We dodged the ordnance and escaped to the yard where our battle continued. But we knew that once my dad was off the phone, we would be in deep trouble.
Why is it that when we, as in parents, receive a phone call, our children want to engage in conversation? It's the only time they need help with homework. Argue. Fight. And carry on. Uncanny, isn't it?
It seems that if their needs are not immediately addressed, they resort to a disruptive means of gaining attention.
You probably will not find my father's method of ending sibling rivalry being promoted in child psychology books. But, hey, the results were immediate and effective. The one value we did learn from my father's method was ho'ihi, or respect. Respect for his expectations and respect for the consequences he imposed.
I have not adopted my father's disciplinary measures, but will substitute a method that commands respect.
The next time the phone rings, I'll high-tail it to my office, lock the door behind me and hang a "Do not disturb" sign on it.
And I may not emerge until dinner time.
Ka'ohua Lucas has an 18-year-old daughter and two sons, 11 and 7. She hold a master's degree in education curriculum and instruction, and works as an educational consultant on Hawaiian curriculum. Write to her at: Family Matters, 'Ohana Section, The Honolulu Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Honolulu, HI 96802; e-mail ohana@honoluluadvertiser.com or fax 535-8170.
