Get Your Kid To Work Day

I’m fairly certain the McKendricks descend from a long line of aristocrats—well-heeled Scots dripping in diamonds, and above all, accustomed to having others clean up after them.  The diamonds have been lost to the roulette table, but the expectation that life comes with a butler and maid—that is still very much alive, at least in our home.  And when you add to this my cannot-do attitude about getting kids to do housework, what you end up with is a real mess.

After seven kids, I should be a pro at the chore thing, handing out assignments and making sure they get done, but I’m not.  Far from it.  I get stymied by their heckling.  Why do we always have to do chores!  Why isn’t he doing this!  Why does she get to do that!  This is so unfair!  We never have fun!  Worst day ever!  Where’s my yacht and polo pony!  The complaining drains me, makes me feel like giving up . . . or catching a plane to India.

Years ago, 60 Minutes did a story about child labor in India.  In it they interviewed kids who worked twelve hours a day in sweat shops for meager earnings.  The owner of one of the sweat shops was also interviewed.  He was a stern looking man, a man void of sympathy, and unmoved by complaints, and while disgusted by his heartlessness, I found myself wishing he ran a summer camp.  Nothing fancy, just a place where kids who don’t want to do their chores could come for a reality check.

Hi everyone, I’d say as we entered his workplace that violated every safety code known to man, this is Charlotte, and today she’ll be working alongside you on one of these pre-World War I sewing machines.  Okay, sweetie, I’d say, giving Charlotte one last kiss and prying her fingers from my waist, knock yourself out.  I’ll see you in twelve hours.  Be sure to watch out for those overhead sparks, and the vats of boiling dye. Wait, what’s that?  You want to clean your room and you’re willing to fold laundry.  Are you sure?  If you stay, he’s going to give you a twelve cents at the end of the day.  Okay, fine, let’s go home and do some chores.  I’m telling you, it’d be worth the price of the airfare . . . and the subsequent years of therapy.

Despite my daydreams of a drastic solution, just this past weekend we made progress getting our kids to do their chores, and, surprisingly enough, it didn’t involve a trip to Bombay.  My husband, Rich, is a fan of Dave Ramsey, a financial guru, known for his workshop series called, Financial Peace University, and his nationally syndicated radio show.   Last week Rich listened to Dave Ramsey, and Saturday morning when it was time to face the moaning masses and give them their assignments, Rich took charge and handled things differently.

“All right,” he told them, “you’ve got to get your rooms cleaned, and for every day it’s clean, I’m going to pay you a dollar.”

Charlotte’s eyes brightened.  “You’re going to pay us a dollar for every single day our room is clean!”

“That’s right,” said Rich. 

“Then let’s do this!” she said. 

And they went to work, even Peter.  All day they were at it, trying to get their rooms in order for their dad to inspect.  It’s been four days since Rich gave them this challenge, and so far he hasn’t handed out a single dollar.  And it’s not that he’s being tight fisted, although the man who insists we use expired toothpaste does have a tightfisted side to him.  Still, the reason he hasn’t put a dollar in the jars he had them decorate is that they haven’t yet met the standard he gave them.  When they do, he’ll pay them.  But here’s the great news:  their rooms have never been cleaner.  They still drop their clothes like Jeeves, dressed in a tuxedo, will be by in a moment to pick them up, but they’re making progress, which is great, because as it turns out, there are no cheap tickets to India.