People laugh and criticize mom after she reveals how she makes 7-year-old clean and teaches him how to cook

How we choose to raise our children and the lessons we decide to ingrain in them from an early age differs from parent to parent.

It’s only natural, of course. Some mothers and fathers take a more disciplined approach, for example, while others prefer to let their kids go through a try and fail cycle so that they can learn right and wrong through their own experiences.

Now, for the most part, how one chooses to style their son or daughter’s upbringing is their business, no one else’s. Yet that doesn’t stop people commenting and criticizing online every time a debate is sparked over some parental decision or another…

I remember when I was younger, doing chores was considered part and parcel of everyday life. I mean for me and my siblings, of course, not only my mother.

Doing dishes, making beds, helping to prepare food before mealtimes… the list goes on and on.

I understand times change, but in my mind getting children to help out with tasks around the house – providing there’s no danger involved – is a great way to instill values and a worth ethic that will come in handy later on.

It seems, though, that not everyone agrees. According to reports, one mother found this out the hard way a few years back after she uploaded pictures of her son and shared her method of giving him chores to do with the internet.

The mom in question, 22-year-old Nikkole Paulun, reportedly explained how she proudly put her 7-year-old son, Lyle, to work around the house, where he would help out with things like cooking and cleaning.

Nothing too dramatic, I’m sure we can all agree, but that didn’t stop online detractors from verbally attacking her and expressing concern over the potential impact on the child’s emotional well-being.

The bulk of the critics targeted the fact that the mother had shared her son’s chores online, not only potentially making other parents question themselves, but also flagging the idea that the child might not want to have his daily activities shared with a large number of strangers online.

One woman went as far as to write in the comments that Nikkole couldn’t just let her child “be your slave. Or to do the chores that you yourself don’t want to do.”

Another wrote: “So I take it you can do everything ur teaching ur son to do or are you just putting pressure on ur child?”

A third added: “Don’t get me wrong… a child should know responsibility. .. but should not be operating a stove that young.

A fourth wrote: “Lazy mother’s are sweeping the country. It’s good to teach them while they’re young but i notice alot of these single mom’s are just raising their boy’s to be the man that they wish they always had.

There were many who defended Nikkole in the comments, too, with her post gaining viral status after it garnered over 8,000 comments and 156,000 interactions on Facebook.

Nikkole herself insisted that she enjoys doing housework and that her son Lyle “just helps along the way & earns allowance as well.

What’s more, she added that her then-one-year-old daughter, Ellie, would be following in her elder siblings steps and doing the same thing when she was a little older.

What do you think to Nikkole’s parenting approach and the criticism she got for it? Let us know your thoughts in the comments box.

AT 78, I SOLD EVERYTHING I HAD AND BOUGHT ONE WAY TICKET TO SEE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE – IN THE PLANE, MY DREAM WAS CRUSHED

The worn leather of the suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of regret, of guilt gnawing at my soul. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life. Forty years since my own stupidity had torn us apart.

I glanced at the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. 123 Maple Street, Willow Creek, Ohio. It felt like a destination in a dream, a place I had only ever dared to imagine.

The plane ride was a blur. My mind raced, a whirlwind of memories and “what ifs.” What would she look like now? Would she still have that mischievous glint in her eyes, that infectious laugh that used to fill our small apartment? Would she recognize me, this old man, weathered by time and regret?

As the plane began its descent, a wave of dizziness washed over me. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles white. My chest felt tight, a burning sensation spreading through my lungs. Voices, muffled and distant, seemed to come from far away.

“Sir, are you alright?”

I tried to respond, but only a strangled gasp escaped my lips. The world tilted, then plunged into darkness.

When I awoke, I was in a sterile white room, the smell of antiseptic filling my nostrils. A blurry image of concerned faces swam into view – a nurse, a doctor, a young woman with kind eyes.

“Where… where am I?” I croaked, my voice weak and raspy.

“You’re at St. Jude’s Hospital, sir,” the young woman said gently. “You suffered a heart attack. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Heart attack. The words echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my mortality. But a different thought, more urgent, pushed its way to the forefront. Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth,” I rasped, my voice hoarse. “Is she… is she here?”

The young woman hesitated, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. “I… I don’t know, sir. Who is Elizabeth?”

My heart sank. Had I imagined it? Had the years of loneliness and regret twisted my mind, creating a fantasy, a desperate hope?

Days turned into weeks. I spent my recovery in the hospital, haunted by the uncertainty. The doctors assured me that I was stable, but the fear of losing consciousness again, of never seeing Elizabeth, lingered.

One afternoon, as I sat by the window, watching the world go by, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. A woman, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was more beautiful than I remembered, her face etched with the lines of time, yet her smile was the same, the same smile that had captivated me all those years ago.

“Arthur,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was her. Elizabeth.

She rushed towards me, her arms open wide. I held her close, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender, a scent that transported me back to a time of youthful dreams and endless possibilities.

“I never stopped loving you, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped waiting.”

And in that moment, I knew that despite the years that had passed, despite the pain and the regret, love, true love, had a way of finding its way back home.

As we held each other, the world seemed to melt away. The years of separation, the loneliness, the fear – all of it seemed insignificant compared to the joy of holding her in my arms once more. We had lost so much time, but we still had now. And that, I realized, was all that truly mattered. The worn leather of my suitcase felt rough against my trembling hands. Forty years. Forty years of longing, of regret, of a life lived in a perpetual twilight. Forty years since I had last seen Elizabeth, the love of my life, the woman whose laughter still echoed in the empty chambers of my heart.

I remembered the day vividly. The rain was coming down in sheets, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. We were arguing, a petty disagreement blown out of proportion by youthful pride and stubbornness. I had stormed out, my words echoing in the rain-slicked street. “Fine,” I had spat, “I don’t need you!”

I hadn’t meant it. Not really. But the words hung heavy in the air, a cruel echo of my own anger. I walked for hours, the rain washing away my pride and replacing it with a growing dread. When I finally returned, the lights in our small apartment were off. I called her name, my voice cracking with fear, but there was no answer.

The police found her car abandoned by the river, a chilling testament to the storm that had raged within me. The search parties, the endless waiting, the gnawing uncertainty – it had aged me beyond my years. The vibrant hues of life had faded, replaced by a monotonous grey.

Then, a miracle. A letter, tucked amongst a pile of bills and advertisements, a faded envelope bearing a familiar handwriting. “I’ve been thinking of you,” it read.

The words, simple yet profound, ignited a fire within me. Hope, a fragile ember that had long since been extinguished, flickered back to life. I devoured every letter, each one a precious piece of her, a glimpse into the life she had built. I learned about her children, her grandchildren, her passions, her joys, and her sorrows. And with each letter, the ache in my heart lessened, replaced by a yearning so intense it almost consumed me.

Then, the invitation. “Come,” it read, “Come see me.”

She had included her address.

And so, here I was, 78 years old, sitting on a plane, my hands trembling, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. I hadn’t flown in decades. The world outside the window, a blur of clouds and sky, mirrored the chaos within me.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in my chest. I gasped for air, my vision blurring. Voices, distant and muffled, filled my ears. “Sir, are you alright?” “We need to get him some air!”

Panic clawed at my throat. Not now. Not when I was finally this close.

Then, through the haze, I saw her face. Her eyes, the same shade of hazel as mine, wide with concern.

“John?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

And in that moment, time seemed to stand still. The pain, the fear, the decades of longing – they all faded away. All that remained was her. Elizabeth.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring her face. But I knew. I knew it was her.

And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I whispered her name, a silent prayer, a love song carried on the wind.

I woke up in a hospital room, the scent of antiseptic filling my nostrils. Elizabeth sat beside me, her hand gently clasped in mine.

“You gave me quite a scare,” she said, her voice soft as a summer breeze.

I managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And as I looked at her, at the lines etched on her face, the silver strands in her hair, I knew that this was just the beginning. We had forty years to catch up on, to rediscover the love we had lost. Forty years to make up for the time we had wasted.

And as I held her hand, I knew that this time, nothing would ever tear us apart again.

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