Some observations on parenting in America....

Ok well I think I have enough content from comments on Facebook to lay the foundation of my very, extremely, unofficial study of American parenting.  Perhaps I should start with some of my own observations and experiences in my own little world.
First off, I feel I must mention that my own kids are typical American kids in many ways, and I am not at all trying to make the point that I have done everything right when it comes to parenting.  In fact, quite the contrary.  I am yet to figure out how to teach my 4 year old not to constantly interrupt (only to then say, "Um, I forgot") and my 6 year old how to not spew venom out of her mouth when she is angry.
It is very difficult to find a child in our culture (mine are absolutely included) that sits quietly at a restaurant, doesn't interrupt an adult, behaves decently in church or an adult setting, respects authority figures, understands that there are real dangers in the world, gets along with a group of children without arguing or finding an odd-ball to pick on.... the list goes on.
Most of my life I have believed that many of these problems cannot be solved and are simply just they way kids are.
However, recently, I have begun to rethink that idea.
I realize that we are a melting pot of people and cultures, and we live in a society where parenting styles greatly vary.  But there has got to be some common thread that speaks louder and influences our kids more than our personal parenting approach within the walls of our home.
I visited Costa Rica last year, Haiti this year, and have spent some time secretly observing a Jamaican co-worker.  I noticed that it must have been in cultures such as these that the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child" was born.  And I also noticed that such a phrase cannot be applied in the United States.
We are people who are proud and fiercely individual.  We believe it is better to have our own homes, separate from friends and family, where we can raise our own kids without the help of others, drive our own cars to work, buy our own groceries and waste our own food.
The Jamaican guy I worked with tried this "village" approach with my kids.  They didn't respond and he got odd looks from other employees.  One day Sam didn't want to do class (gymnastics), and my co-worker basically stepped in and said he was doing class and he needed to quit crying for his mom.  Mr Jamaica wouldn't let him say hi to me during class either.  I was all for these things, but Sam wasn't accustomed to it.  As a co-worker, my friend assumed a similar role as me while he and I and my kids were at the gym.  It was interesting, and different, and I kind of liked it and wished that his ways weren't so foreign to my child.
Soon Mr Jamaica had to leave and I stepped into teach some of the classes he used to teach.  One of them was a 2 year old gymnastics class.  The first day I taught his class it went horribly because his ways had been so different than mine.  I could not keep control of one strong willed and spoiled 2 year old, (evidently my co-worker had had no problems with her).  It was like she had zero interest in listening to a small white girl who probably overused the words, "No, no don't do that...."  (she'd literally look at me, get up, and bolt across the gym at warp two-year-old speed).  I kept taking her out of class and making her sit with her mom for 5 minutes, then would come back to get her to see if she was ready to try again.  This approach never worked and she soon dropped my class.  (I'm still trying to figure out what he did that was so effective?!?)
I found more content for my ponderings in Haiti.  We had the privilege of staying on the same compound as the Children's Home, and much of our spare time was spent with these orphaned kids.  In the week we spent with them, I observed them playing, partaking in evening devotions, and at church.  Remarkably, they got along for the most part, seemed to care for one another, seemed to respect and follow instruction (though there were very few instructions given).  I also watched as these kids plus all the other village kids sat through a 3 hour church service (that's right--no children's church service with kids in "age-appropriate" classes).  Young ones fell asleep leaning on the child next to them and one kid got up, walked down the aisle, across the front of the church (with no nervous mother trailing behind him, embarrassed or apologizing) and stood in front of a man in our group.  The little boy looked him and smiled until he was picked up and put on on Paul's lap for the rest of the service.  In general, I didn't see the kids interrupt adults or speak disrespectfully (though they did tease each other for sure).
So what is the difference?
I think it's a bunch of things.... but I'll try to nail it down to just a few small points.
Obviously cultures such as these are aren't afraid of kidnappings, freaks and nutjobs--and unfortunately in our country we have to be.  But perhaps we need not be so afraid to allow other trusted adults to parent our children either.  I think many American's see it as a sign of weakness to ask for help from others, and we may even be the culprits in causing our children not to respect other adults by our own extreme individualism.
Our entire culture is individualized and compartmentalized: we divide kids up into separate age groups from day one in daycare's, schools, classes and church.  The older never get a chance to teach the younger; instead kids may always find themselves in varying "age-appropriate groups" where they are supposed to listen, obey and pay attention just because.
I think that in these cultures where the "village" theory can be applied, you won't see a mom freaking out about her son running on wood floors, or standing too close to the road.  There seems to be a lot less said, but much more done--proving true that actions do speak louder than words.
In fact, in these cultures, you can't say that there is any "parenting style" at all.  They way the kids are raised at home is in congruence with what the child would experience from adults outside the home as well.  In these cultures where the "village" mentality exists, there doesn't seem to be an in-congruence between life inside or outside of the home.
Here-in Western civilization, there are varying parenting methods applied inside the home, but kids are all eventually thrown out in our world where they will compare notes and realize that what they are taught at home may not be the same as the next kid.  One kid may have been raised by strict Chinese parents (like Amy Chua's book exemplifies), another by an over-worked single mom, another by a nanny, and many many many many kids whose parents don't parent at all, but allow their kids to be raised by daycare, sports teams, public school and cable TV.    
So in the end it may be more detrimental that we all have different approaches, that there is no "norm" in our society to be had, besides the fact that we don't (and sometimes can't) trust each other.
And just in case your wondering, I'm not pushing for reform, I really don't think there's an answer.  Just a mere observation :) ...and I haven't even touched on the French or Chinese yet....but I recommend the following:
Pamela Druckerman's article, "Why French Parents Are Superior": http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204740904577196931457473816.html
and I totally recommend Amy Chua's book, "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother".

Lonely Neighbors: Episode 2 Season 1

An older lady lives in my neighborhood.  She is 72, but she acts much older.  She doesn't smell particularly good and when she talks she refers to herself in the third person.

Tonight she calls me at 4:30 p.m. and asks me to take her to the grocery store.  "Fifteen-twenty minutes tops," she says in a shaky voice.  I tell her I'll need to take my kids to my Mom's house first, I'll check with her and then call back.  I reluctantly ask my mother if she would mind.  Of course she doesn't.  So I drop my kids off down the street and head to pick her up.

This past Sunday we took her to church.  She likes our church, and wants to go every Sunday.  I usually call her at about 9:00 on Saturday nights to see if she'll be going with us.  If she accepts my offer, I will be riding in the back seat, between my kids' car seats.  I will chuckle a little as I observe my husband's demeanor as he entertains his passenger.  He keeps focused straight ahead, gives an, "uh-huh, really?" every now and then, but doesn't so much as turn his head to visually address her, lest she might misunderstand his interest level. 

My elderly friends' house is full of piles: piles of dishes, silverware, tupperware; piles of magazines, books and catalog's.  She doesn't have a lot of friends and her daughter lives in Ohio.  Our relationship began when I started ordering her vitamins for her.  I soon became aware of her need and lack of family, and offered to mow her lawn, and every now and then would run her around town to pay her bills.  I didn't mind helping her, and appreciated that she didn't call me too often.  Our relationship has progressed to calls a few times a week--sometimes to run errands, other times just to chat.  I have to be honest and say most times I am less than enthused about her phone calls.  There is never a day that I want to help her, but I do anyway.

One Sunday our pastor told a story about his friend who was dying of cancer.  She nudged me on the leg and said, "See, that's what I'm afraid of.  The results of my liver tests came back and they think it could be cirrhosis of the liver."  She didn't return for further testing, but she did ask to meet my pastor after the sermon and asked for prayer.  

This past Sunday, she got a bloody nose while eating her doughnut and attempting to buy a Bible.  I told Jeremy to stand by her while I went to get her some toilet paper.  She cleaned her nose and asked me for another pastry.  Soon after we strolled into the service and found our chairs (I had reserved seats in an easy to access row).  She sits down and exhales loudly, takes a few minutes to situate her Bible, bulletin and coffee then says, "Oh yeah.  This is nice.  I like this.  Oh boy."  I stand and sing and Judy stays seated in her chair.  

I love worship on Sunday mornings.  It is probably my favorite part of church.  But this Sunday my heart felt like it was going two opposite directions.  As much as I wanted to sing with all my heart, I became very aware that much of my heart was burdened by the woman sitting next to me.  

I want to make excuses for not loving her sometimes; my flesh attempts to find good reason for it too. I tell myself, she's not taken good care of herself;  she's drank too much in the past;  she's probably not been a good friend or mother and that's why she's so alone in her old age.  Deep down I know God hasn't asked me to make those calls.  God has placed her in my path and asked me to love her.

As I stood in church and sang, I heard the verse from 1 Corinthians in my head, "If I speak in tongues of men or angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal."  That is what my worship would have been, if I had refused to love her the way God was asking me to.  And so I opened up the resistant part of my heart.  I told God I'd do whatever he wanted me to do, and I asked him to show me who she was. 

An hour later we were driving home from church in our usual seating arrangement.  Our stomachs leaped as Jeremy sped over some railroad tracks.  "You know those tracks back there?" She says as she points a shaky finger towards the back seat, "That was where my Dad was killed.  I was 19 years old."  She starts to tell the story, which grabs all of our attention, but never quite completes it (whether it was too difficult a story or her apparent ADD I'm not sure).  My daughter nudges me and wants more details.  I tell her I don't know, and we are left with unanswered questions but softer hearts.  We drop her off at home, I walk her to her door and she kisses me on the cheek before I leave.

At the grocery store today I found that I could hardly stop chuckling.  She breathes through her nose and exhales loudly as she saunters through the store--holding the grocery cart like a walker.  She mumbles to herself, "Aaah. Oh boy. You've got to... Oh dear.  Oh boy."  She sees a box of cereal and turns toward me, "Well now that ain't too bad.  You ever tried that honey?"  I want her to hurry, I want to return home before my husband does.  But instead I help her shop and smile to myself as we walk through the store.