I wasn't tender. I wasn't patient. I wasn't even nice.
I got it wrong last night.
The evening unraveled after I picked the girls up from my mom's house at nearly 9:30 pm on a school night. I could fill the anxiety building in my chest as I pulled in the driveway because we weren't already home & I didn't have them in bed. I don't like failing. Actually, despise is the appropriate word. I'm not talking about losing a game of checkers or the latest game at stake in the NCAA tournament. I'm actually not much of a competitor. I'm talking about failing my children.
Once home I opened the back door to our fenced back yard to let the dogs out. The crew quickly zoned in on something near the sandbox in the darkness. I closed the door to the muddy mess (it had been raining for hours) & called to the oldest to get her pajamas on while I shoved some resemblance of dinner in my mouth just to stop the rumbling in my empty stomach.
I returned to the back door with an old towel that we use for wiping dog paws on such muddy occasions. Upon opening the door one unruly canine bolted through without the normal pause to have his feet wiped. As I turned the corner to follow him I see my oldest sitting on a stair step and she timidly states "I was waiting for you" without having changed her clothes. The urgency in my voice was not enough as I shouted "Don't let him upstairs!" seeing the child safety gate hanging open at the top of the stairwell.
You know what happened, right? He made it upstairs. And down the hall. And onto the bed. Mud flying everywhere. These paws weren't just a little muddy. He had been digging in said mud for the critter that caught his attention by the sandbox. Yuck.
I raised my voice. No, I yelled. I made her feel like she wasn't enough. I made her feel small. I was a bully.
If only she had listened then she would be upstairs with the gate closed getting on her pajamas. But she didn't. She missed me tonight and was waiting for me. She was waiting for us to have a moment.
Sigh. I got it wrong. The frustration was not at all her fault. The frustration was from choices. The choices I made for the evening as the responsible adult. The choice that led us to a late bedtime. The choice that led to a mock dinner. The choice that led to the anxiety. Then one small, or four small, muddy paws - the proverbial mountain from a mole hill.
I'm getting really good at apologizing. I'm sooooo not perfect. I'm flawed. I get it wrong.
After the chaos was under control I returned to her bedroom. She was tucked into bed with her cozy pink comforter pulled up over her nose with her little eyes peering out at me in the warm glow of the night light. She was probably waiting for the next emotional blow in the cascade of events. I crawled in beside her deflated of unnecessary anger. I asked for forgiveness. I told her that it was not at all her fault. I told her that I was imperfect. I told her that I got it wrong.
If you get it wrong sometimes too it's okay. Getting it wrong is an opportunity to talk to our children about our imperfections, where we fall short of the glory of God and ultimately, forgiveness. Please be vulnerable enough to say you are sorry. Be brave enough to recognize when you get it wrong and tell them why. This is the most important part when we get it wrong as parents. Our children need to see all of us. The parent isn't always right. We also make mistakes. We also strike out in anger or frustration. Our children will definitely know how to admit when they are wrong if it comes from experience because we will have showed them how. My goodness, they will certainly know how to express a heartfelt apology when they get it wrong.
So today I shall try again. I will try to be better. I will try to get it right.
I will be tender. I will be patient. I will be nice.
She is enough. I am enough.
J
