man who felt he was going to die, though his health was at its very best — so he rose in the middle of the night and wrote his will. And there is the man who is afraid to board an airplane until his children are grown, or because he promised his wife he would not. Yes, we do not deny that we have the right to fear this cause or that, and even to fear fear itself. Admitting fear is natural — or rather, it does no harm — but on condition that we do not surrender to it entirely. Fear is a natural physiological reaction to danger; it is a mechanism for self-preservation: the substance adrenalin is secreted, and thereby strength is produced either for self-defense or for flight. Natural fear passes when the danger passes.
We imitate those we love or admire. We imitate our parents, and we imagine that if the father is afflicted with diabetes or some other disease, we too are bound to be stricken with it sooner or later — and so we begin to fear the disease in advance. This although scientists, through their study of the embryo, have proved that most of the diseases some people suppose to be transmitted by heredity are pure fancy. As for the power of personal suggestion, it is well known — and this fear is of that kind of suggestion. We observe that those with high blood pressure raise it higher merely by thinking about it.
And here is a delightful article in "Parents' Magazine" (1), written by Mrs. Dewey, entitled: "No more mad mornings in our house." This is a natural — or rather a universal — situation that occurs in most homes. Mrs. Dewey set about treating the subject; let us hear what she says:
Getting my husband off to work and the children off to school was always an operation of scramble and commotion every morning. If
you, my dear listener, suffer the same difficulty, then take note of how Mrs. Dewey handled this business of sending the members of the family off to their occupations happy and properly fed.
— "Look, my dear," said the husband one day over his morning coffee, while the wife was combing her younger daughter's hair and directing the second, teary-eyed, to the whereabouts of her lost shoe. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but isn't there some way we can avoid this turmoil every morning?"
— "Yes," I answered him, "but I don't know the reason!" And when the lost shoe had been found, the soiled clothes changed and cleaned, and the last lunch basket handed to the grumbling bicycle rider, I came back to my husband again.
We began to talk the matter over and agreed to think out a satisfactory solution. I looked at the baby and said to him: "You are partly to blame. Why don't you stay clean at night?" He favored me with a broad smile, thinking I was playing with him; so I hugged him, poured myself a second cup of coffee, and let my eyes wander over the empty breakfast dishes and the clothes and shoes scattered about the floor of the house. Then I took up a pencil and paper and began to write and to think... An hour later, when it was time for the kitchen work, there lay before me a sheet with these ten observations set down:
1 - I never get to drink my coffee except cold. (It had not occurred to me that I was putting my own problem first — but no matter; perhaps there is some benefit in being selfish now and then, especially as I now have a purpose.)
2 - Not one member of the family eats his fill in the morning, because by the time I
have finished changing the baby's clothes and prepared the food, it is eight o'clock.
3 - The children prefer their food hot, and most of the time I serve it to them cold.
4 - My husband hates cereal and prefers bacon and eggs in the morning, and I do not give them to him.
5 - The children never know where any one of them has put his shoes or his other things.
6 - By the time the girls decide what to wear for the day, it is time to leave for school.
7 - This haste leaves the children throwing their clothes here and there all over the house.
8 - I spend most of the morning picking up the clothes scattered after them before I begin the housework.
9 - Almost every morning one of them is bound to forget something in the house, or to go off without finding it, having no time to search for it.
10 - Most days I do not breakfast well, and by eleven o'clock I am hungry.
It did not take much effort for me to see that our problem was one of organization. Nor did I need much intelligence to admit bravely that most of the fault fell on me. I thought about plans all day long, and when my husband came home I presented him with my written analysis of the problem. He was very pleased with it. His first observation was that he too felt hungry at eleven, and that he was certain the children did as well. So he suggested we discuss the matter with the children — perhaps they would have some sound ideas.
(1) "Parents Magazine": Dec. 1951 "No More Mad Mornings at Our House."
And indeed we set to conferring