Day 87 #100DaysOfOldDays
For today’s post I decided to do a bit of research in order to determine what style of parenting I was raised with.
Bear with me…this is not a boring lesson on parenting psychology. Sure who am I to lecture on parenting styles?
In the 1960’s, phychologist Diana Baumrind worked on developing ‘parenting styles theory’. She categorised them into four styles; authoritarian, authoritative, permissive and neglectful. The model was later redefined by Maccoby and Martin in 1983.
After inspecting each model, I’ve put my parents into a category!
Here’s what each one means (Just in case you’re not in the know).
Authoritarian; strict rules, harsh punishment if rules are not followed, little or no reasoning for the rules and punishments, high expectations, unsympathetic, unaccepting, cold, demand respect.
Authoritative; warm and nurturing, reason instead of demanding, encourage independence, consistent with enforcing boundaries, earn their child’s respect rather than demand it, encourage independence, teach about values and moral behaviour.
Permissive; set very few rules and are reluctant to enforce these rules, few boundaries.
Neglectful; they don’t set firm boundaries or high standards for their children, uninvolved in their childrens’ lives.
Going by this model I can safely say that my mother was an authoritative parent.
My father falls into a completely different parenting style category. One that’s called, ‘Don’t Tell Your Mother.’
While Mam was the rule maker, Dad was the rule breaker. We only broke the rules when Daddy Dearest encouraged us to.
When Mam would be getting ready for bingo he’d say to her, ‘Now Mam, get these to bed before you go because they won’t go for me.’
She’d have the supper in us, the jammies on and we’d be all tucked up in bed as she was leaving. She’d walk across the terrace to get the bingo bus to either Kells, Tullyvin, Shercock, or Kingscourt. Different towns on different nights.
As soon as she was out of sight, Dad would come up the stairs, ‘She’s gone,’ he’d cheer. We’d get up and the fun would begin. On the bright summer evenings he’d let us get dressed and go outside to play. ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he’d warn.
On dark or wet evenings he’d let us watch telly, or play games. He’d sprinkle sugar on the floor (we had linoleum) so we could slide up and down in our socks. He’d give us weetabix spread with Golden Syrup or butter and sugar. He’d be a donkey and let us ride on his back. He’d play hide and seek with us…letting us hide in Mam’s wardrobe where we were totally banned from.
He’d always have us back in bed before Mam would get home from bingo. ‘Now, make sure you don’t tell your mother,’ he’d remind us.
One night she missed the bus and came home to find us all outside playing. He was in the doghouse for a week after that.
Sometimes he’d take us to work with him instead of school, especially if the weather was good. ‘Don’t tell your mother.’ Of course we didn’t tell!
He’d give us money for Mrs Fulton’s shop. ‘Don’t tell your mother, or she mightn’t buy sweets for yas tomorrow.’
When we’d get into trouble with Mam, he’d comfort us. If she said no, he’d say ‘Go on, but don’t tell your mother.’
We’ve always laughed and joked about his style of parenting down through the years. Mam knew rightly what he got up to behind her back. Their opposed views on child raring didn’t cause any issues. They had a high regard for each other and worked it all out between them. Their zest for a fun-filled family life made everything okay!
Having said all that, Dad had limits too. He didn’t let us away with bad manners. We had tremendous respect for him and we knew the boundaries. He didn’t demand anything from us or lecture us…we just knew not to cross the line. I think my parents had the balance right!