Life really should be one long journey of joy for children born with a world of wealth at their feet.

Internationally famous child doctor Robert Coles is the world’s top expert on the influence of money on children. He has written a well-known book on the subject, “The Privileged Ones,” and his research shows that too much money in the family can cause as many problems as too little. “Obviously there are certain advantages to being rich,” says the 53-year-old doctor, “such as better health, education and future work prospects. But most important is the quality of family life. Money can’t buy love.”

It can buy a lot of other things, however, and that’s where the trouble starts. Rich kids have so much to choose from that they often become confused. Over-indulgence (娇养) by their parents can make them spoilt. They tend to travel more than other children, from home to home and country to country, which causes feelings of restlessness.

“But privileged children do have a better sense of their positions in the world,” adds Mr. Coles, “and they are more self-assured.” The rich children inherit the property from their parents and enjoy a high income. So money will never be one of their problems. “However, they have a sense of isolation,” warns Dr Coles, “and they could suffer from the hardship of not being able to deal with the everyday world because they will never really be given the chance. Everything they have achieved is because of an accident of birth. There can be no tremendous inner satisfaction about that.”

Today’s wealthy parents perhaps realize their riches can be more of a heavy load than happiness to their children. So the first thing for them to consider is to ensure that their families are as rich in love as they are in money.

When I was ten years old, Mum got paralyzed (瘫痪) . Before that, she was a lively and active woman who amazed many with her energy. I admired her for all the things she did.

However, everything changed when she turned thirty-one.

I still have vivid images of her before her paralysis. She would play popular music, creating a cheerful atmosphere for lively gatherings. She would joyfully rearrange the furniture to make room for friends to abandon themselves to dance. She often spent hours filling the house with flowers, which we picked fresh from the gardens.

After Mum’s paralysis, I began to take care of my 2-year-old sister, Mary Therese. In no time at all, I learned to bathe and feed her. For me it was a giant step beyond playing with dolls. One moment stands out even today: the time Mary Therese fell and skinned her knee, burst into tears and ran past my mother’s outstretched arms into mine. Too late, I noticed slight hurt on Mum’s face, but all she said was, “It’s natural that she should run to you, because you take such good care of her.”

When I was grown and entered the field of corrections, Mum became interested in working with prisoners. She taught writing to them. One day, she asked me to mail a letter to one prisoner, Waymon. I asked for my mother’s permission to read it first. It read: when you said that I couldn’t imagine what it is like to be in prison, I felt like I had to tell you that you are mistaken. When I awoke one day to find that I was completely paralyzed, I felt trapped, overwhelmed by a sense of being imprisoned in a body that would no longer allow me to dance or carry my child in my arms. But then, I made a choice about whether I would smile when I saw my daughters again or I would weep. I made a decision to live as fully as I could.

By the time I finished Mum’s letter, my vision was clouded by tears. For the first time, I saw my mother in a clearer light.

It was at least two months before Christmas when nine-year-old Almie Rose told her father and me that she wanted a new bicycle. As Christmas drew nearer, her desire for a bicycle seemed to fade, or so we thought. We bought the latest rage, Baby Sitter's Club dolls, and a doll house. Then, much to our surprise, on December 23^rd, she said that she "really wanted a bike more than anything else." It was just too late, with all the details of preparing Christmas dinner and buying last minute gifts, to take the time to select the "right bike" for our little girl. It was Christmas Eve around 9:00 p.m.. Almie and her six-year-old brother, Dylan, lay comfortably in their beds. Now we could only think of the bicycle and the disappointment of our child. "What if I make a little bicycle out of clay (黏土) and write a note that she could trade the clay model in for a real bike?" her dad asked. "This is an expensive item and she is 'such a big girl,' it would be much better for her to pick it out." So he spent the next four hours painstakingly (尽心地) working with clay to make a tiny bike. On Christmas morning, we were excited for Almie to open the little heart-shaped package with the beautiful red and white clay bike and the note. Finally, she opened it and read the note aloud. "Does this mean that I trade in this bike that Daddy made me for a real one?" Beaming, I said, "Yes." Almie had tears in her eyes when she replied, "I could never trade in this beautiful bicycle that Daddy made me. I'd rather keep this than get a real bike." At that moment, we would have moved heaven and earth to buy her every bicycle on the planet!