Compassion

Families fall into two camps: those who love school holidays and those who loathe them.

For the former, it’s a time for bonding; the latter, a form of bondage.

I always enjoy the first couple of weeks.

Then I want to sell the kids on EBay.

Trying to keep them occupied 24/7 without spoiling them is a highwire act worthy of Barnum & Bailey.

“Just let Mummy read the paper for 10 minutes and I’ll buy you a new Transformer,” I heard one bad parent say the other day.

Actually, that was me.

We use bribery and blackmail every day to get the kids to do what we want – then we punish them when they whinge for more.

Excellent parenting skills.

So this week, we decided to teach the kids about kindness, empathy and compassion to negate the venal, selfish and corrupt lessons they’ve learned so far.

(I guess they could always go into state politics.)

For years, an image of our World Vision sponsor child has peered longingly from the fridge door.

Gently cradling the photo, I told Taj and Grace about the life of nine-year-old Jemima in Kenya: how she doesn’t have any toys; how she eats a bowl of rice for dinner every night; how she has to keep the house clean and look after her five younger siblings.

I thought the story had worked a treat until Taj looked up at me with big, blue eyes and said, “I don’t like that girl Mummy. Her face is dirty. Can I have another Transformer?”

Clearly, it was worse than I thought.

Like a woman possessed, I stuffed half the kids’ toy collection into two huge boxes for St. Vinnies.

“Sorry luv, can’t take ‘em,” said the man at the store. “Something about health regulations and kids choking,” he continued (or I think that’s what he said above the din of two hysterical children trying to snatch back their baby toys).

Next stop, the Post Office. Maybe I could send the toys to a charity overseas?

“Yep, that’ll be $157,” the postie smiled.

My well of compassion ain’t quite that deep.

From the Post Office, we drove to the local hospital.

“Look, thanks for thinking of us, but we have plenty of toys for the sick kids at the moment,” said the receptionist at Mona Vale.

It was time to pull out the big guns.

Dragged down by pockets full of coins, we trudged the back streets of the inner-city in search of homeless people.

Aside from the odd insensitive comment (“Why does that man smell like wee wee, Mummy?” it was a valuable life lesson.

Suddenly, the kids realised that not everyone is fortunate enough to have a home; a family; food on the table.

Yesterday Taj wandered in to the kitchen with a handful of toys and asked, “Can I give these to the poor people?”

I have no idea how long this lesson will last – weeks, maybe a month.

But it’s a worthwhile counter balance to that festival of excess known as the school holidays.