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Trophy Child: Saving Parents from Performance, Preparing Children for Something Greater Than Themselvesby Ted Cunningham
Our culture’s obsession with achievement often leads parents to form expectations for their kids based on the world’s standards, not on the Bible. Their children try to meet their emotional needs instead of listening for God’s call—and as a result, their kids feel they never measure up. Written for every mom who helps too much with homework… See more details below
Our culture’s obsession with achievement often leads parents to form expectations for their kids based on the world’s standards, not on the Bible. Their children try to meet their emotional needs instead of listening for God’s call—and as a result, their kids feel they never measure up. Written for every mom who helps too much with homework just to impress the teacher and every dad who secretly takes credit for his daughter’s soccer success, Trophy Child will give parents the encouragement they need to nurture their kids into who God created them to be.
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"God, Holy Scripture, and the author’s Christian ministry figure heavily in this easygoing lesson on how to do what’s best for your kids instead of what makes you feel better about yourself as a parent. Using stories about his own family and those he's helped in his ministry, Cunningham shares strategies for letting children learn from their mistakes, keeping your marriage strong, and preparing children to deal with the world and serve others. Kirby Heyborne’s humble confidence is a good fit for this material. His connection with the author’s wisdom and enthusiasm for the lively parent-child dialogue make it fun to hear. The advice and encouragement are written from a spiritual perspective but will be welcome by all whose overly ambitious parenting intentions have backed them, and their kids, into a corner."
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Saving Parents FROM Performance Preparing Children FOR Something Greater THAN Themselves
By Ted Cunningham
David C. CookCopyright © 2012 Ted Cunningham
All rights reserved.
Parenting is not a sport, and our children are not trophies. No performing, perfecting, comparing, or competing necessary.
My children are a wonderful blessing from the Lord and a welcomed addition to our family. They will not be with me forever, so I prepare them accordingly. It is not my goal to hold on to them for life, take credit for what God is doing through them, or show them off to family and friends.
God placed a mantle of leadership on my shoulders in 2003 with the birth of my first child, and since then I've found that parenting is a hard job. It comes with pressure, responsibility, heartache, joy, frustration, and guilt. To think that God trusts me to impress His Word on my children's hearts is scary and humbling.
Our job as parents is to raise children who love Jesus and leave home as responsible adults. We prepare them for a lifetime of following Christ, working hard, being married, and raising a family.
When kids spend their childhood years fulfilling Mom and Dad's desires and dreams, they lose out on discovering who God created them to be and what He has prepared for them to do. When parents push their personal agendas, the kids miss out on identifying their God-given personality, passions, and spiritual gifts.
Through our ministry to families at Woodland Hills Family Church in Branson, Missouri, we observe that most parents overindulge their children, center the home around them, and in some ways turn their own children into idols. As parents, we often use anything and everything to place them on the pedestal—including their accomplishments, looks, personalities, and attributes—in order to impress others.
God blessed my wife, Amy, and me with two children, Corynn and Carson. Turning them into trophies is easy and requires little effort—trophy parenting is a piece of cake. Parenting with the right motives is difficult. We sometimes catch ourselves treating our children as extensions of ourselves.
No one else on earth is exactly like Corynn—she is unique. She has some of my personality and tendencies but is different in so many ways. She enjoys holding my hand while walking down the path to our favorite fishing hole. We snuggle on the couch at night. She is constantly painting pictures, making duct-tape phone cases, and crafting friendship bracelets for me. Corynn is my princess, but I am her father, not her BFF.
Even though he looks like me, Carson is not an extension of me. He has my sense of humor and laughs at my jokes. He splits apple fritters with me at Starbucks and practices his karate on me every day. I've got the marks to prove it. We use our backyard trampoline with safety net as a cage-fighting arena. His greatest thrill in life is flying through the air with the greatest ease to deliver a jab to my lower back. Taking down Dad is his primary goal in life. Carson is my mighty warrior, but I am his dad, not his lifelong sparring partner.
Corynn and Carson will be with me for a short time, and even though the days go slow, the years go fast. Like passing through Wahoo, Nebraska, which only takes the blink of an eye, my children will grow up and leave. During that blink, my wife and I are the primary authors of our children's hearts. My concern during this short time is impressing a love for the Lord on their hearts, rather than impressing others with my parenting. Leading my children in daily devotions, loving their mom, and encouraging their personal commitment to Jesus Christ far outweighs their ACT scores, choice of college, or performance in sports or extracurricular activities.
In the past, I was a trophy collector, both in sports and parenting. That nonsense stops here and now.
My Not-So-Stellar Athletic Career
I was one of the greatest athletes of the twentieth century. Ha! Actually, my role was vitally important in getting the Oswego Panthers cross-country team to the Illinois State Finals. Double Ha!
I was the alternate. Let me explain.
At every meet, each school ran seven guys. For the Panthers, I was number eight. That meant I was ready at a moment's notice if one of the top seven suffered illness or injury. At most races and invitational events I sat on the sidelines, cheering on my teammates and praying that they would stay healthy. There's no greater feeling than bundling up in forty-degree weather, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate, and watching hundreds of the state's top runners compete. It was a good place for me to be.
During the regular season, each hosting school held a second race after the main invitational each Saturday. They called it the Open. I called it the scrub race, even though I was a top runner in that competition. The Open gave trophies to the top five runners— nothing fancy, just a plastic runner standing (or running, rather) on a marble base. No columns or placards. It felt so obligatory; they handed you your trophy the moment you crossed the finish line. There was no awards ceremony.
The Open was an unnecessary race. It usually ran after the main event to give the event coordinators time to clean up the race site. It also gave the primary runners time for their cooldown. There's nothing more embarrassing than being passed during the race by a runner from the previous race—as he's doing his cooldown. Ouch!
Try harder. Lift more. Focus. "Dedication, Pride, and Tradition" was our motto. Despite lots of effort on my part, I was and continue to be a not-so-stellar athlete. But I prayed for my team during every race and cheered them home during the Illinois State Finals.
There was another sport I participated in toward the end of high school. I had a short stint in powerlifting. Most people seem shocked when I tell them that because I am not Red Lobster's fresh catch of the day and could stand to lose a couple pounds, but it's true.
My high school shop teacher, Mr. Groth, was a passionate guy who bench-pressed over five hundred pounds. He was a great mentor and friend who invested in me during my four years in high school.
I lifted competitively at eighteen, shortly after my high school graduation. My short career ended one year later, right before I turned twenty. I was a horrible powerlifter, but I received trophies for participation anyway.
Catching the theme yet?
Competitive powerlifting has two main categories: age and weight. Within each of those categories are too many divisions to count. I lifted in the teen division at 165 pounds.
My first meet was in Plano, Illinois, at a car dealership. I kid you not—they cleared the cars from the showroom floor and made room for seats, a platform, and an impressive trophy display. When I say trophy display, I mean it was massive! The smallest trophy was over two feet tall, a long way from the four-inch cross-country trophies I collected. The first-place trophies stood over three-and-half-feet tall.
There was only one other kid in my division, which guaranteed me a two-and-a-half-foot trophy. Hot diggity! Mr. Groth had brought a team of six guys, and they were each genuinely happy for me, knowing that trophy was mine. We had no idea that the three-and-a-half-foot trophy had Ted Cunningham's name on it. All the credit goes to Mr. Groth.
He pulled me aside at the registration table and said, "Ted, let's start with a weight you can nail no sweat. You get three lifts, and it is critical that you get at least one weight posted. If no weight is posted, that means no trophy." Understood.
He was the coach, so I started at 225 pounds on the bench.
My competitor was a confident young stud with a bad coach. His starting weight was 300, and he missed it all three times. I hit 225, then 250, then 275. When they called me up for the trophy, Mr. Groth and all my buddies went nuts.
As we left the event, I turned around and looked at the remains of the trophy display—and there sat the two-and-a-half-foot trophy for second place in my division, which went unclaimed. What happened? Did I really win? Is it a stretch to say I was good at powerlifting and deserved a three-and-a-half-foot trophy? My coach deserved it more than I did.
Nonetheless, I was hooked. I went on to compete professionally at twelve more events. That's an exaggerated statement, but it builds anticipation for where I am landing this story.
For me, powerlifting became less about competing and more about collecting trophies. I found myself registering for the novice, open, and teen divisions at each event. Three divisions meant three trophies. My shelf was full. Six years after I retired from powerlifting, I got a dreaded phone call from my mom.
"Dad is turning your bedroom into a reading room for me and wants to get rid of all these trophies," she said. And for the life of me, I could not see her sending me those megahuge, unearned trophies.
"Just throw them away," I said.
"I hate to do that with all the time and money you spent on getting these," she responded.
Way to rub it in, Mom!
The next year at Christmas, my family presented me with a display shelf that my brother had built. On this custom shelf sat the bulky plastic men that had once crowned those massive trophies. I chuckled. My parents had had my brother unscrew the guys from the tops of each trophy and fasten them to this beautiful fireplace-looking mantle.
After my family left our house, my wife looked at me and asked, "You are not seriously considering hanging that mantle in this house, are you?"
"Thanks for your support, honey," I quickly responded.
There you have it. Now you know. I was not one of the greatest athletes of the twentieth century. I am not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. I am a recovering trophy collector. You are reading a book written by a nonathlete. Now the question is—did my kids get my genes?
We award trophies to teams and individuals who excel in a sport or activity. We've seen them hoisted by athletes, displayed on mantles, and lined up in cases outside of school gymnasiums. There are trophies for bowling, running, racing, beauty, and dancing. You can get one for participating, placing, completing, or winning. Some movie stars dedicate an entire room in their homes to one trophy. Takes ego and cash to do something like that. Like Billy Crystal said at the 2012 Oscar awards, "Nothing can take the sting out of the world's economic problems like watching millionaires present each other with golden statues."
We earn awards, collect them, display them, brag about them, reminisce over them, and toss them out.
There is a new kind of trophy being sought by parents. It's the prize that is our children. Bumper stickers, Facebook and Twitter posts, unlimited opportunities, no-loser competitions, and excessive praise elevate our children to a whole new level of recognition. They do not stand on shelves, but everything they do is on display.
I'll never forget when the doctor first displayed our firstborn. She was four weeks old, and during her first doctor's visit, they measured her weight, height, and head circumference and compared her to every other infant in the nation. Amy and I peered over the doctor's shoulder at the computer monitor as he explained that the circumference of Corynn's head was in the ninety-eighth percentile. Yeah!
I remember asking Amy, "Why do we care how Corynn's head circumference lines up with the rest of the world? And oh yeah, what do we need to do to beat out that other two percent?"
Corynn's weight was another story. She was underweight, and that caused us a great deal of concern. When the doctor recommended we supplement Corynn's nursing with formula, I thought it was a good idea. But I soon received unsolicited opinions from parents on the pros and cons of formula—and it didn't stop there. We compared ourselves to other parents over the use of pacifiers, diapers, potty-training techniques, and training wheels.
Parents of previous generations had different stresses. Many parents felt blessed if their children went to bed at night with a full stomach. These parents survived wars and depressions and prioritized the important stuff, while we take for granted those things for which our grandparents praised their Father in heaven. My grandparents were patriotic, sacrificial, dutiful, loyal, God-honoring, and faithful blue-collar workers. Their parenting plan was simple, and their goal was to pass their values on to their family.
The shift started around 1980 and continues today with the phenomenon of the kid-centered home. Parents began shifting their style to be more encouraging, nurturing, and praising, bombarding kids with excessive "atta-boys," gold stars for every paper, no-loser competitions, no-failure-allowed assignments, big moments on the stage or field, and plenty of opportunity and privilege. Most of our strategies are the same as those of our parents and grandparents, but our values are not.
The shift toward the kid-centered home has many roots, but divorce is one of the leading causes of the kid-centered home and the raising of trophy children. Parents elevate their children to adult or companion status, and they require their kids to bear a burdensome emotional load.
Your own childhood often determines much of your parenting style. If parents grew up in an abusive or neglectful home, they compensate for their own childhood experiences by overencouraging their children.
Parents misinterpret love. They believe they are doing their children a service by elevating them and overencouraging them. They believe this is the best way to communicate love, not realizing the damage caused by revolving the world around their children.
The "miracle child" syndrome is another example of the kid-centered home. Parents who struggled with infertility prior to having a child often refer to their child as a miracle. They hold on to them with fierce diligence rather than letting go and trusting God with their children.
The motives of the modern parent weren't seen in other generations. Again, we share strategies similar to those used by past generations, but we deploy those strategies with radically different motives. There are five primary motives of parents who display their children.
Motive #1: We Obsess over Achievement and Competition
This first motive launches our children into organized activities before they have developed necessary social skills and the ability to handle change. We place our children in competitive sports at early ages and forget how important it is for them to enjoy free playtime in those early childhood development years:
As kids participate in organized, competitive programs at increasingly early ages ... "they don't learn how to get along. The coach says, 'You come here; you go there.' Everything is directed from the adults' point of view. In the informal play settings of past generations, kids had to learn how to negotiate with other kids...." The activities of today's children are so carefully directed ... that they have little opportunity to develop life-negotiation skills.
Remember when kids went up the street to play at a neighbor's house? How about setting up a piece of plywood in the ditch and jumping bikes for hours? Those were the days. Summer was incomplete without one friend wearing something in a cast.
Now, our obsession includes praising every attempt, activity, and achievement regardless of outcome, so much so that attempt and achievement actually become synonymous. We give trophies and ribbons for trying, not necessarily placing or even finishing. We reward success and minimize failure. We do not accept weakness or rejection. If someone rejects our child or places him or her on the wrong team, we write it off as another's problem.
Excessive praise can lead to apathy and an inflated view of self, especially when we exaggerate the skills, talents, and giftedness of our own children. Average isn't good enough. They begin to feel as if they must strive to be gifted (at everything).
Branson, Missouri, is known for great live entertainment. Locals call it Hillbilly Vegas. One of my family's favorite dinner shows is the Dixie Stampede. You eat a chicken dinner with your fingers while watching a fantastic rodeo-style show. Doesn't get any better than that in Branson, Missouri!
The show is set during the Civil War, and the organizers divide the audience into two teams—North and South. The emcee rides on a beautiful mare and keeps the audience fully engaged by pitting one side against the other. After the equestrian riders compete, the emcee invites the audience to participate. He chooses members from the audience to compete in toilet-seat-lid horseshoes and couples' tandem horse races on sticks. At the end of each adult competition, the winners receive medals.
Excerpted from TROPHY CHILD by Ted Cunningham. Copyright © 2012 Ted Cunningham. Excerpted by permission of David C. Cook.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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