Cut

I am on the Texas coast
At a breakfast cafe with
My wife, three small sons
And my stepsister and
Her two daughters 9 and 10,
My stepsister is cutting up
Their ham for them and my
Wife and I give each other
The look of disapproval.
Still, best not to question
How a mother raises her
Daughters even though
They are also our grand
Daughters, a long story.
We know it is harmful for
Them to be babied and
Would be helpful for them
To learn to grow up and
Cut their own meat on
Their own plate but we
Know their mother is now
Divorced and has enough
Worries without criticism
From us on such a small item.
The whole long weekend at
The coast we restrain our
Selves from comment but
Encourage the girls to be
More self-reliant but to
Little or no effect,
They are trained to do the
Least possible like baby birds
Holding their mouths open for
Momma bird to shove down
More food into their gullets.
We are judgemental and
Fail to show the tolerance
Others show us for our
Emphasis to our sons that
It is 18 and out to college
With a job or out to a job
Or out to the army but no
Loading about at home,
Time to move out.
Our belief is kids should be
Raised to be independent
At 18 seems harsh to some,
We see it as victory conditions
For raising sons to be men.
We also will not let them own
A car or drive our car until
They are both 18 and buy their
Own car and pay for insurance.
Our sons all joined the army,
Finished a college degree and
Were good boys and fine men.
My granddaughters are still
Precious to me and have kids
Of their own to raise,
I enjoy seeing which method
They will choose to employ.
I am not comfortable in today’s
World of situation ethics and
Single Moms and over directed
Kids raised on TV and gizmos,
I long for the days when we
Were told to play outside
Until it got dark and not to
Come home any sooner.
We fought our own battles
And won or lost day-to-day
On our own and built up
Our confidence to tackle
Any job or person and
To learn from our
Mistakes. Our dark gray
Slate tabulas were fresh with
Melted Beeswax each morning
Ready for a new day’s lessons
To be scratched with a stylus
Of pencil or pen on paper.
But many did not make it,
They failed to get a higher
Education and pushed
Forward as far as they
Could against the odds.
Who am I to judge
Given so much
Is luck though
I think we make
Our own luck
To some
Degree.
I will skip
The pun
On degree.