Livestock barns have a smell all their own. The mixture of hay, sawdust, and manure, combined with the naturally pungent odor of goats, pigs, cattle, and sheep, creates an aroma that clings to your nostrils and doesn’t easily go away—even with multiple grills cooking hamburger meat and wieners nearby. Once you get past the ripeness of the barn, though, the spectacle of boots, hats, and showmanship is entertaining. Watching an eighteen-year-old veteran of stock shows expertly guide a pig past a judge while using a short stick to keep the porker’s head up is impressive. Just as enjoyable is watching a six-year-old chase her pig across the arena while it weaves between all the other pigs fussing and squealing.
At one such show, my wife and I were waiting for our high school daughter’s chance to show her pig. To get there, you have to wait through all the classifications and weight divisions until it’s the right moment. While we waited, a little girl—maybe 10 or 11—stood in the lane with her pig. The entire time, her dad was coaching her aggressively, lacing his words with horrible language. When she didn’t do well with the judge and was quickly culled, she walked out of the arena only to face her dad’s fury. He hurled expletives, including F-bombs, in a constant barrage until the child crumbled into a heap of sobs. I couldn’t help but wonder: Did he believe his investment gave him the right to abuse his daughter? Did he think this was good parenting? Was this how he was raised? Was he a control freak? Living through his kid? Did he honestly believe he was helping her?
Normally, I don’t offer unsolicited advice, but when it comes to justice, I have a hard time remaining silent. At the risk of starting a fistfight, I walked over to the much younger man and said, “Buddy, how will you feel when she marries a man who treats her just the way you do?” His face turned blood red, and he told me to blow off (with worse language), insisting it was none of my business. “No sir,” I replied, “it may not be my business, but somebody needs to stand for your child. Can you see her sitting broken in the corner? Can you see your bride’s shattered face, powerless to help her child? Can you see the looks of disgust around this arena as your behavior ruins the day?” I thought he might hit me—he wanted to—but he didn’t. Instead, he stormed out while his wife quietly collected their daughter. Later, that same wife walked up slowly, hugged me tightly, and whispered only two words: “Thank you.”
Parents, as school ramps up and events fill the calendar, be your child’s greatest cheerleader. Go to as many events as you can, and decide now that you’ll offer nothing but encouragement and affirmation. Don’t sit with toxic spectators. REMEMBER: With the rarest exceptions, your child is not going to go pro in the event you’re watching. That little girl isn’t headed to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, so cheer harder and worry less about hair and makeup. That high school football player, even if he’s talented, probably won’t go D-1, and even if he does, the odds of making it pro are basement-low. But the odds of him becoming a man are 100%—so help him get there. Praise the 92 instead of questioning the missing 8 points. If your child’s best is a 70, buy them ice cream for that 74. Applaud the cleaned-up bedroom and ignore the sock left in the corner. Celebrate that they dressed themselves and don’t fret over the red shirt with orange shorts—those things aren’t a reflection of your parenting. Hug them after every event. Tell them how proud you are. Focus on the joy of the activity, not just the outcome. Encourage curiosity. Applaud the effort it takes to stretch themselves. Ask how they feel about the event—affirm their positive thoughts, and help reframe the negative ones. Hand out high-fives freely. Cheer loudly. Praise often. Let the coaches coach, let the teachers teach, and just celebrate your kid.
I hope the man in the arena changed his ways. Who knows? Doesn’t every little girl deserve to say, “I want to marry a man just like my dad”? Think of a boy who says, “I was never a starter, but my parents were always there—building me up and encouraging me to cheer for my teammates.” Blessed children say, “I’ve always been good enough for my folks. They believe in me. They cheer me on every step of my life.”
Love them. Love them hard. And likely, they’ll be just fine.
