“When we direct our thoughts properly, we can control our emotions.”

—W. Clement Stone

---

• Tweet
• Pin It

Today’s story is from Bill Stafford Jr.

I wait. I watch. The target would soon appear. My tactics? Well refined.

Unsuspecting, she casually strolls out of the house onto the lawn. That silly smile… it would soon go!

The time is right. I jump out from behind the car. “Attack!” I yell, as I hurl a volley of dirt pellets straight at her face.

WHACK! Smack in the mouth. Perfect aim. Again, I throw. SCORE! The side of her head. Hurts pretty good, I’ll bet.

What a wimp. Sandi (my sis) runs into the house looking for Mom. It doesn’t take long. Mom and a tearful Sandi stand upset at the door.

“Billy! Quit throwing dirt at your sister! You leave her alone!” Mom warns. She turns and walks back inside. Sandi timidly shuffles out to the lawn to collect her dolls.

Guess what? I am also upset. Tattletale. Running to mom. The answer to that? The middle finger!

Now this is a major league no-no at our house. But I don’t care ‘cause I am so pis…d at Sandi, my sis. But guess who is still watching out the window? I should have known.

Mom flies from the house. Just about rips the screen door off coming out. Loud scolding… wimpy spanking. You know moms. Their spanks are but pats on the butt and sprinkled with love. My real concern… the wrath of dad.

About an hour later, I hear his truck pull in. Another spanking for sure. This one will hurt. Probably an early bedtime without dinner, too. I hide under my bed.

Soon the sound of Dad’s work boots will surely clop into my room. But they never come. An hour. Two. Nothing. So I crawl out from under the bed. Slowly, I inch my door open a sliver to peek out. A plain bologna sandwich and glass of milk sit outside my door. Is it a trap? I don’t care at that point. Darn hungry, I grab the rations and shut the door.

I spend the rest of the night waiting. The doorknob is left unturned. No boots. No dad. Just my luck, the next day is Saturday… no work. Dad will be home — all day.

In the morning I summon up my courage and sheepishly slink downstairs into the kitchen. Might as well get it over with, I think. Dad sits reading his paper, sipping coffee. He doesn’t even acknowledge me. In fact he ignores me for the rest of the day. I know I am in trouble. No way I’m getting off the hook this easy. I think to myself, the wait is worse than the wallop to come.

Around 4 o’clock, Dad finally walks in. “Son, you did a bad thing yesterday — you lost your head. Your anger took over and made you do bad.” Perplexed, but reassured by his sanguine tone, I relax a bit.

“Billy, you shouldn’t throw dirt at your sister, but that’s not your big mistake. You cannot let your emotions control your actions, get you in trouble, and dictate your fate. Mom told me about the middle finger…”

Dad continues…

“Yesterday I could have reacted with emotion and spanked you, but I didn’t. I gave myself 24 hours to calm down.”

Unexpectedly, Dad lifts me onto his lap. He goes on, “You need to do the same thing with your sisters, and everyone else.

Don’t act when you’re mad and mess up your life.”

I was 6 years old at the time. It’s been over 35 years. Dad’s 24-Hour Rule has guided my life. It’s caused me to stop, think, and not speak so fast. I’ve avoided doing what I would have lived to regret. It’s preserved friendships I might have let a hot temper lose. Dad’s 24-Hour Rule is a guiding principle in building the company I own. Even today, I use the 24-Hour Rule raising my four kids.

What great advice for all dads. Wait 24 hours. Cool off. Bide your time while they sweat it out.

Remember, the wait is worse than the wallop to come.

---

---

---