If worry merely affected the one who worries it might be easier,
in many cases, to view worry with equanimity and calmness. But,
unfortunately, in the disagreeable features of life, far more than the
agreeable, the aphorism of the apostolic writer, "No man liveth unto
himself," seems to be more than ordinarily true. It is one proof of
the selfishness of the "worrier"--whether consciously or unconsciously
I do not say--that he never keeps his worry to himself. He must always
"out with it." The nervous mother worrying about her baby shows it
even to the unconscious child at her breast. When the child is older
she still shows it, until the little one knows as well as it knows
when the sun is shining that "mother is worrying again." The worrying
wife does not keep her worry to herself; she pours it out to, or upon,
her husband. The worrying husband is just the same. If it is the wife
that causes him to worry--or to think so--he pours out his worry
in turbulent words, thus adding fuel to a fire already too hot for
comfort.
It is one of the chief characteristics of worry that it is seldom
confined to the breast of its victim. It loses its power, too often,
when shut up. It must find expression in looks, in tone of voice, in
sulkiness, in dumps, in nagging or in a voicing of its woes.
It is in this voicing of itself that worry demonstrates its inherent
selfishness. If father, mother, wife, friends, neighbors, _anybody_
can give help, pleasure, joy, instruction, profit, their voices are
always heard with delight. If they have reasonable cautions to give
to those they love, who seem to them to be thoughtless, regardless of
danger which they see or fear, or even foolhardy, let them speak out
bravely, courageously, lovingly, and they will generally be listened
to. But to have them voice their fretful, painful, distressing worries
no one is benefitted, and both speaker and the one spoken to are
positively harmed. For an unnecessary fear voiced is strengthened; it
is made more real. If one did not feel it before, it is now planted in
his mind to his serious detriment, and once there, it begins to breed
as disease germs are said to breed, by millions, and one moment of
worry weds another moment, and the next moment a family of worries
is born that surround, hamper and bewilder. Is this kindly, is it
helpful, is it loving, is it unselfish?
The questions answer themselves. The planting of worry in the mind of
another is heartless, cruel, unkind and selfish.
Another question naturally arises: If this course of action is
selfish, and the worrier really desires to be unselfish, how can he
control his worry, at least so as not to communicate it to another?
The answer also is clear.
Let him put a guard upon his lips, a watch upon his actions. Let him
say to himself: Though I do not, for my own sake, care to control the
needless worries of my life, I must not, I dare not curse other lives
with them. Hence I must at least keep them to myself--I must not voice
them, I must not display them in face, eyes or tone.
Then there is the mother who worries over her child's clothing. She
is never ceasing in her cautions. It is "don't, don't, don't," from
morning to night, and whether this seems "nagging" to her or not,
there would be a unanimous vote on the subject were the child
consulted as to his feelings. Of course the boy, the girl, must be
taught to take care of his, her, clothes, but this is never done by
nagging. A far better plan would be to fit a punishment which really
belongs to the evil or careless habit of the child. For instance, if
a boy will persist in throwing his hat anywhere, instead of hanging
it up, let the parent give him _one_ caution, not in a threatening
or angry way, but in just as matter of fact a fashion as if she were
telling him of some news: "John, the next time you fail to hang your
hat in its proper place I shall lock it up for three days!"
Then, if John fails, take the hat and lock it up, and _let it
stay locked-up_, though the heavens fall. The same with a child's
playthings, tennis racquets, base-balls, bats, etc. As a rule one
application of the rule cures. This is immeasurably more sensible than
nagging, for it produces the required result almost instantly, and
there is little irritation to either person concerned, while nagging
is never effective, and irritates both all the time.
Other parents worry considerably over their children getting in the
dirt.
In an article which recently appeared in _Good Housekeeping_ Dr. Woods
Hutchinson says some sensible things on "Children as Cabbages." He
starts out by saying: "It is well to remember that not all dirt is
dirty. While some kinds of dirt are exceedingly dangerous, others are
absolutely necessary to life."
If your children get into the dirty and dangerous dirt, spend your
energies in getting them into the other kind of dirt, rather than in
nagging. Fall into the habit of doing the wise, the rational, the
sane thing, because it produces results, rather than the foolish,
irrational, insane thing which never produces a result save anger,
irritation, and oftentimes, alienation.
In a little book written by J.J. Bell, entitled _Wee MacGregor_, there
is a worrying mother. Fortunately she is sweet-spirited with it all,
or it would have been unbearable.
She and her husband John, and the baby, wee Jeannie, with Macgregor
were going out to dinner at "Aunt Purdie's," who was "rale genteel an'
awfu' easy offendit." The anxious mother was counselling her young son
regarding his behavior at the table of that excellent lady:
'An' mind, Macgreegor, ye're no' to be askin' fur jeely till
ye've ett twa bits o' breed-an'-butter. It's no' mainners; an'
yer Aunt Purdie's rale partecclar. An' yer no' to dicht yer
mooth wi' yer cuff--mind that. Ye're to tak' yer hanky an'
let on ye're jist gi'ein' yer nib a bit wipe. An' ye're no' to
scale yer tea nor sup the sugar if ony's left in yer cup when
ye're dune drinkin'. An' if ye drap yer piece on the floor
ye're no' to gang efter it; ye're jist to let on ye've ett it.
An' ye're no'--
'Deed, Lizzie,' interposed her husband, 'ye're the yin to
think aboot things.'
'Weel, John, if I dinna tell Macgreegor hoo to behave hissel',
he'll affront me,' etc., etc., etc.
Who has not thus seen the anxious mother? And who ever saw her
worrying and anxiety do much if any good? Train your child by all
means in your own home, but let up when you are going out, for your
worry worries him, makes him self-conscious, brings about the very
disasters you wish to avoid, and at the same time destroys his,
your, and everyone's else, pleasure who observes, feels, or hears the
expressions of worry.