The 13th Time

As I lay on my bed, exhausted, I thought about what happened with my son today.

For the 12th time, I had politely told him the same thing. 12 times. The same request. The same explanation. The same patience. But he didnot do. 

By the thirtheeth time, I was tired. Mentally drained. Frustrated.

And I shouted. Magic, He listened immediately.

As silence filled the room, a thought crossed my mind:

"If shouting works so quickly, why didn't I just shout at the first time?"

If parenting had data & analytics, the report would read: 

"Polite requests -> 0% conversion. Shouting ->100% engagement (reponse Rate less than 0.001 seconds.😆)

But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I became.

Because parenting isn't just about getting children to obey. It's about teaching them how to become good.

And that's when my mind wandered back to my own childhood.

Many of us grew up in homes where every household item had a secondary purpose: A Weapon for beating children.

The belt wasn't just a belt. The dosa karandi wasn't just for making dosas. The comb, the scale, the newspaper, the towel, even the legendary saattai (whip) every item in the house seemed to have a hidden job description.

Primary purpose: Household use.

Secondary purpose: To beat and Correct our behavior

Back then, the definition of a good parent was simple: the stricter, the better. 

If a child misbehaved and the parents didn't beat them, relatives would arrive with free parenting advice: "You are spoiling the child! Beat and Rise" (adichu thuvachu valathu, lol)

"In our days, one look from the father was enough!"

But as a kid, I lived in constant fear that any household object could suddenly receive a career upgrade. Like Anniyan switching personalities, a harmless comb could transform into a weapon used to beat me.

Looking back now, I know my parents loved me deeply. But somehow, my memory has preserved those beatings in crystal-clear detail.

I don't remember what I ate on a random Tuesday in 1998. But I can still remember exactly why I got beaten that one afternoon.

The funny thing is, the beatings were usually for "discipline." Yet even today, I can't remember what rule I broke. I only remember the dramatic beating and shouting performance that followed.

But enough about my childhood survival stories.

Let's come back to the present, where I had just shouted at my son after 12 times.

My son listened after I shouted. But I don't want fear to become the language between us.

I want trust. I want respect. I want him to listen because he understands, not because he is afraid.

Parenting is strange that way. Sometimes we repeat ourselves eleven, 20  times and feel like we are failing. Yet those 12 patient conversations may matter far more than the one moment of anger that finally gets a result.

Children may remember what we teach them.

But they also remember how we made them feel.

That night, lying on my bed, I wasn't proud of the shout. I wasn't devastated by it either. It was simply a reminder that parenting is not about perfection.

It's about trying again tomorrow. With a little more patience.

A little more understanding. And hopefully, one less shout.