Learning not to condemn, criticize, or complain

Today while I was waiting in the dentist for my youngest daughter to get her two teeth put back together I started a new book that was recommended by a friend of mine on facebook. I realize probably everyone has read this but I have not. The book is "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale Carnegie.



You see in my business as a distributor now for Xyngular I am having to learn how to socialize on the computer more. Actually it is quite fun and I love to meet new people out there from all over the world. I have made so many wonderful connections and have learned so much about social networking. I thought I knew facebook, twitter, linkedin, and myspace but, I am quickly realizing I really knew only a chip of these amazing vehicles to the social world.

What drives me to succeed in this business initially was so I could stay at home with my girls. I needed to replace my income as a therapist for children with autism. I am almost there in actually only one month in the business. I love that I can help people achieve their weight loss goals, their financial success, and that I get to actually go to my girls school now to eat lunch with them during the day.

So, back to the book. (Just a reminder I warned you early on I go all over the place) As I was reading the first chapter I ran across a poem / story. I want to share it with you. It brought a few tears to my eyes as I sat there in the corner of the dentist office as my little one laid there getting work done.

I think everyone with our without children should really take a moment and let this sink in. Ask yourself if you are in the habit of criticizing all the time? Stop and really take a look and listen to yourself. Are you? If so, what has this habit done to you? You know the habit of finding fault.

As I have always said to my friends who are going through issues with another ask yourself why? Why is this person behaving this way and try to understand them.

Here it is:

Father Forgets

by W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son; I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a twoel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came Up the road, I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before you boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, form a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to your for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too muchof youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in yourcharacter. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself overthe wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you alugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing buy a boy - a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.