“To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”
― William Shakespeare, King Henry VI
Life dishes out plenty of grief, even (perhaps especially) to kids. Loss, fear, injury, insults, heartbreak, disappointment, sickness, rejection, worry—what child has not been dealt these and has wept accordingly? Any impatience adults have with such weeping reflects our own shortcoming, not the child’s.
Even so, weeping—and its cousins, whining and grumbling and bellowing of indignation—is sometimes indulged in a little too liberally. Some laments seem more akin to complaints than to expressions of actual grief.
For example, whining to express that one’s brother is not doing his share of the chores or, conversely, that the brother is helping to pick up the sticks in the yard when one wanted to do this job by himself.
Or perhaps one’s brother refuses to smell one’s “good-smelling breath,” post teeth-brushing.
One’s food is detestable.
A boot is missing, only to be found in a place where the owner did not put it, and how did it get there: How?
Someone is scraping cardboard against a table in a way that he knows his brother finds annoying, and that’s why he’s doing it, too!
Lights-out came too soon, as will morning, as it turns out, 10 hours hence.
Someone quit the Monopoly game prematurely.
Impending haircuts will itch.
Shoveling snow makes them cold.
(Let’s pause to admit that the airing of such grievances is are not limited to children. Adults do this, too, in our own, more sophisticated—we think—way.)
But still, this is life, isn’t it? Whining and all?
Fortunately, there is an asylum from such absurdities, a rest for parental ears. It’s offered by screen time.
Screen time can be complex. For example, Sonny and Ace enjoy many educational games, and while we appreciate the educational value thereof, educational value is not why they play the games. School has educational value, as do books and the great outdoors, so they can get that in those places. And while I do not object to their playing games or watching videos purely for entertainment, they can easily find recreation elsewhere, if they have to, which they often do.
The chief reason they have screen time is so I can have peace and quiet. Ugly, maybe, but true. Screens are mesmerizing, after all, and we might as well channel that to some purpose. While they are being mesmerized, my brain is regrouping. It works.
But hark. What’s this I hear? Weeping’s cousins?
Someone’s brother is not letting him watch him play Minecraft, even though he let him watch when he played.
The tablet is out of power. Someone didn’t charge it! Who did not plug it in?
One’s allotted screen time is up long before one is finished playing the game, and that’s not fair!
Why are they complaining? Why aren’t they mesmerized? Where’s my peace and quiet? Don’t they know that’s what screen time is for?
And suddenly I am channeling Tom Hanks: “Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There’s no crying! THERE’S NO CRYING IN SCREEN TIME!”
Because if there’s crying in screen time, opportunities for screen time—yes, even the educational apps—will go away. Ugly but true. The kids can go outside and shovel more snow instead.
Thank you, Shakespeare, for reminding us that weeping has its place.
And thank you, Tom Hanks, for articulating that weeping can be misplaced.
And may we all learn the difference.