In my doll’s tea set, there were no cups without saucers.

If the mudguard on my bike was crooked or rattled, I’d insist that my Dad repair it before I could ride my bike again. (We jokingly called it ‘Rattly Mudguard Syndrome’ (RMS) in our house when things weren’t quite how they should be.)

My floral duvet could be nothing other than symmetrically placed on my bed each night. I had cleverly mastered the art of measuring it by becoming a snow angel centered in my bed to see where the duvet fell across my legs. Only then could I sleep.

Well, it took me a long time to drift off as I mentally prepared and played out everything I had to remember for the next day. Forgetting was not an option.

As a child, it was a standing joke in our house that I liked things a certain way.

At school, I refused to complete an entire page of sums, but instead would go to the teacher and ask they mark each one. I had to know that I’d got it right before I continued.

As I got older, exams would send me into meltdown as I didn’t have the luxury of time to perfect my work.

Every mistake felt like a kick in the guts. Every mistake was a reminder of how wrong I was as a person. I would exhaust myself avoiding that shameful heavy feeling which repeatedly reminded me that I wasn’t good enough.

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As someone who has studied and worked in several foreign countries, I know firsthand how challenging it can be to immerse yourself in another culture.

I will never forget the first evening I spent with my host family when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Uzbekistan. I didn’t know what to expect or how to act, and I couldn’t communicate more than my most basic needs in the local language.

My host family and I sat at the dinner table, making gestures and laughing awkwardly. It was terrifying and uncomfortable.

Fortunately, persevering through the challenges of intercultural exchange can bring enormous rewards. By the time I left Uzbekistan, my host family and I had become very close, I had learned a new language, and I had a whole new perspective on the world.

When my husband (who was also a Peace Corps Volunteer) and I had children, we made a commitment to expose our kids to intercultural experiences so they could learn to be more open-minded, compassionate, and empathetic.

We feel strongly that it’s important to teach our kids to respect other cultures and be comfortable with people different from themselves.

Although we love to travel abroad, it’s not always possible. Job schedules, commitments to extended family members, and limited time and money can make it difficult or even impossible.

The good news is that you don’t need a lot of time or money – and you don’t need to travel or live abroad – in order to teach your kids to be more open-minded, accepting, and compassionate. Your family can experience the joys and lessons of intercultural exchange without leaving your hometown!

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Piercing screams came from the playroom. Happy screams or hurting screams? My mom ears pricked up.

Those were not happy screams.

Abandoning my work I marched up the stairs. My daughters backed away from each other upon seeing me. I could see that neither of them was hurt, but they were still shooting daggers at each other with their eyes.

Dutifully, I launched into a lecture on the reasons why they should treat each other with respect.

There are many valid reasons, so this was not a short talk.

By the time I wrapped it up, I had bored myself to the point where I was tempted to roll my eyes and say blah, blah, blah.

My girls bolted as soon as they sensed they were allowed. I had a sense I’d missed the mark, but, oh well, at least they’d stopped fighting.

Later on, at dinner, one of my kids made a rude remark about another child. My husband and I reacted in sync, and proceeded to tag team a lecture on empathy and kindness.

While we made several excellent points, dinnertime turned into a sort of ultra lecture where the kids ate in bored silence, probably plotting their escapes from the table.

For parents like myself, ultra lectures are fun in the moment, but as with other over-indulgences, like eating a whole tub of Hagen Daz, I tend to feel worse about myself almost as soon as I finish.

I knew that in each of the scenarios above, my children had not gleaned the wisdom I had hoped to convey; those teaching opportunities had been wasted.

Instead of learning valuable life lessons, they felt like victims and learned to ignore my words.

I felt that I had hit the rock-bottom of lecturing.

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Here I am. Folding laundry. The ball and chain of chores.

I thought it was bad when they were babies and they had multiple outfit changes. I buoyed my spirits by telling myself that when they were older and didn’t spit up so much and were neater eaters things would be better.

Well, let me tell you, people. It’s not better.

They are 12 and 9 now and it still never ends. I do some laundry and then there is always more that appears! Some random white t-shirt when I’d just done all the whites shows up in the basket, mocking me.

And most of it is theirs! Their pants! Their shirts! Their socks and underwear! Without me they’d never leave the house in clean clothes.

OMG. Without me they’d never leave the house in clean clothes!!

What about when they go to college? Who’s going to do their laundry?

What about when they get married? Am I setting some poor person up for a lifetime of no help with laundry duty?

Holy cow, I am!

I had to wonder what other responsibilities I hadn’t taught them about yet, either because they were “too young” or because it was faster to do it myself.

Then I wondered when I was actually going to find the time to teach them things like laundry, cooking, and washing the dishes. And what about bigger responsibilities like managing money? When was I going to get around to that?

This little epiphany hit me in the middle of folding towels. I looked down at them and realized I needed to start immediately. And I could start with towels.

That was my first step on the path to really, thoughtfully teaching my kids the life skills that lead to learning responsibility. The next step was to decide what to teach them next.

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“Mom, I have better things to do now.”

When the conversation is about reading, few words cut a librarian to the quick more efficiently. My 13-year-old son and I had first been talking about screen time limits. He had been expressing his thoughts calmly while I mentally congratulated myself on how I was handling this touchy conversation.

It went downhill when I shared my hopes for better use of his time than first-person shooter games and YouTube.  Then came his comment about reading.

“I have better things to do.”

I stood like Wile E. Coyote who has been hit by an anvil but doesn’t realize it yet – mouth agape, eyes wide and uncomprehending. I must have looked stunned, because he repeated that sentence for me. Slowly.

As I looked into my son’s face, this kid who’s been steeped in the magic of books his entire life, my heart sank. I pictured the decline of his reading as the slamming of all those doors that my husband and I tried so hard to open for him.

Then I woke up and remembered he’s just turned thirteen – the game’s not over yet.

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