The Best Things My Parents Ever Made Me Do I Called Them Chores, Now I Call Them Preparation.
The screen door slammed behind me as I headed out to the backyard, and the memory came flooding back.
It was a Saturday morning, and like most kids, I already had my day planned. My bicycle leaned against the garage, my baseball glove hung over the handlebars, and somewhere down the street my friends were already calling for each other. Summer wasn’t measured by calendars back then. It was measured by scraped knees, dirty jeans, and how long you could stay outside before your mom called you home for supper.
Just as I reached for my bike, Pop’s voice came from behind me.
“Not so fast.”
I knew what came next.
“The lawn isn’t going to mow itself.”
I probably rolled my eyes. Every minute behind that mower felt like hours my friends were spending without me. Pop wasn’t angry. He smiled and said, “Work first. Play lasts a whole lot longer when you’ve earned it.” When I finished, he didn’t applaud or tell me I was amazing. He looked over the yard, nodded once, and said, “Looks good.”
Looking back now, that little nod meant more than a thousand compliments ever could. It quietly said, “I trusted you to do the job, and you did it, well…”
At the time, I thought Pop was teaching me how to mow a lawn. It was in college that I realized he was teaching me how to become someone people could count on. The older I got, the more I realized my parents weren’t the only ones raising me. Neighbors, teachers, coaches, grandparents, and the old ranchers down the road all had a hand in shaping who I became. I belonged to a family, but I also belonged to a community. Because I belonged, I was expected to contribute.
One blistering hot July afternoon, my friends and I were headed to the creek when Pop looked across the pasture and noticed our old neighbor, Mr. Hollis, loading square bales by himself. He didn’t ask if I wanted to help. He simply said, “Grab our gloves, and meet me at the truck.”
That hay scratched like thorns, the sun beat down like a blowtorch, and my hay fever and asthma made those bales heavier every hour. When the wagon was finally empty, and the barn was stacked to the rafters, the old farmer, with eyes like Christmas morning, handed us each an ice-cold soda as the three of us finally sat down on the tailgate of his pickup.
Mrs Hollis came out of the house with a plate of sandwiches on homemade bread. She had wrapped ‘em in paper towels, as she knew we hadn’t washed up. She looked directly at me when she said, “You men must be hungry after all that work,” with a smile of pride and happiness that made me feel taller than Pop. We sat on that tailgate, the sun still hanging above the fields, legs swinging slowly, with a sandwich in one hand and that ice-cold soda in the other. Dang, the soda was the coldest one I have ever had. Then, Mr. Hollis smiled and said something I’ve never forgotten.
“Neighbors aren’t measured by how close they live. They’re measured by how quickly they show up.” Pop gave a slight nod. Two generations confirming and honest, time-tested, everlasting truth to me, that they had learned from the generations that came before them.
On the drive home, I asked Pop why we’d spent the afternoon helping when we had our own things to do. He looked over and said, “Because someday we’ll be the ones who need a hand.” That was the end of the conversation. There wasn’t a lecture. There didn’t need to be.
As a Neuro-Linguistic Programming coach, I’ve learned that the meaning we attach to our experiences shapes the beliefs we carry through life. That’s called reframing. As a kid, we called them chores. Today, I call it preparation.
Making my bed wasn’t about blankets. It was about discipline.
Mowing the lawn wasn’t about grass. It was about ownership.
Stacking hay wasn’t about filling a barn. It was about serving someone else without expecting anything in return.
My parents understood something many of us have forgotten: confidence doesn’t come from constant praise. It comes from competence. Every responsibility gave me another opportunity to discover that I could solve problems, finish what I started, and contribute to something bigger than myself.
Those small moments became the foundation of resilience.
Life doesn’t come with a maid. It doesn’t always hand us easy days or easy answers. Sooner or later, every one of us has to learn to work, solve problems, and carry our share of the load. I’m grateful I started learning those lessons long before I needed them.
Today, people sometimes tell me the kids have too much responsibility. I smile because I used to think the same thing about my own childhood. Now I know better. We’re not asking our children to do chores because we need the help. We’re giving them opportunities to become dependable, resilient, and confident adults. We’re teaching them that families work together, neighbors show up, and character is built one small responsibility at a time.
When I think back on my childhood, I remember the people who believed enough in me to be more like the man they saw growing inside me. I don’t recall the sore muscles nearly as much as I do the people who believed in me enough to help me become more like the man they saw growing inside me.
For that, I’ll always be thankful. It’s probably why people I love tell me I give too much. Maybe that’s why they call it Thanks-Giving. A time to sit around and share, with the next generation, our memories of those that we are Thankful to, for giving us a chance to become who we are.
So, maybe the word “chores” has gotten a bad reputation. Maybe it’s time we start showing kids what they really are.
Preparation.
Because we’re not just raising children.
We’re raising the adults who will someday raise the next generation.
Scott is a Certified NLP and Mindset Coach, Speaker, Author, and Optimist. Scott was named Best Educator in 2025 by Best Holistic Life Magazine. He focuses his coaching on ex-military personnel, first responders, and their families. His passion for helping men become the men they want to be is inspiring. At home, he’s always building something, helping his community, sharing his knowledge with the next generation, and spending time with family.
“The greatest gift my parents gave me wasn’t an easier childhood—it was the responsibility that prepared me for adulthood.”
– Scott Gates
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