I have been listening to Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People" in the car lately and one of the first lessons in the book hit home for me.
The lesson was not to criticize others.
One thing I have been working on (and have a ways to go still) is not criticizing others.
Father Forgets
The chapter in the book includes a story from Livingston Larned called "Father Forgets" (I've posted the story at the bottom of this post). Obviously, with two little ones at home, this story had a profound meaning to me and reminded me to improve the way I communicate with and interact with my daughters.
But there is more to the story than that. The lesson goes much farther than the relationship between a parent and their children.
The Core to Happiness
Encouraging others instead of criticizing them is core to becoming a happier, more successful person in life. This applies to all our interactions with others, not just those we are closest to.
In order to point my ship in the right direction, I am going to start with you.
At some point, I may have said something critical to you. Most likely I did so with positive intentions, but that isn't what is important. Your reaction and your feelings are what matter.
I want you to know that I appreciate you and what you do for Mavidea, for me, and for others. You are important to me. You deserve affirmation and praise, not criticism and rebuttals. So, thank you. For whatever part you play in my life, thank you. You may not realize it, but you have had an impact on me that won't be forgotten.
Below is the entire story of Father Forgets as well as a link to a YouTube video of the words and Dale Carnegie reading the story.
Take a moment today and think of someone who needs a positive affirmation from you and tell them that they are important to you.
Here is the link to YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55EbjaOLfwA
Here is the text of the story:
Father Forgets
by W. Livingston Larned
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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 towel. 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 your 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 afterward 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 you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of 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 your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the 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 laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but 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.
