<p>Stuck, sorry, but it feels weird to call her a “kid”, when in my mind she has never been a baby goat, and in any case is no longer a child.</p>
<p>I would be ashamed of my child if he looked down on other people for any reason…intelligence, economic status, occupation, appearance, etc. [I believe that everyone is unique and was created by God for a very special purpose.]</p>
<p>I would be ashamed of my child if he were not generous of spirit.</p>
<p>I would be ashamed of my child if he were not a good family man, respectful and protective of his wife (all women for that matter) and his children.</p>
<p>I would be ashamed of my child if he did not exhibit strong moral character and a tenacious work ethic.</p>
<p>I don’t care a whit if he’s rich or poor; I simply want my son to be a good man.</p>
<p>I feel shame. My children, and sometimes I think many of the younger generation, do not feel shame. Ever. Regret but not shame.</p>
<p>If I were the mother of Eric Harris or Dylan Klebold, I would feel ashamed of them, AS WELL as myself. And guilty. And regretful. And Angry. And totally desolate! The minor shortcomings my kids sometimes exhibit—slobbery, maddening procrastination, academic lazines (DS)—fall way short of the criterion for shame.</p>
<p>For all of you who are interesting in further pondering the concept of shame and how it has been employed in the past, there is a new, fascinating book you might enjoy. It is: “The Girls Who Went Away: The Hidden History of Women Who Surrendered Children for Adoption in the Decades Before Roe v. Wade,” by Ann Fessler.</p>