I am rarely wrong. In fact, I'm the picture of damn near perfection. My husband shouts this at me every time we fight, so I know it's true. There are moments, however, when even those of us mostly infallible folks must cop to the odious crime of culpability. Blame is thorny and accepting it just plain stings. So when I had to go to my four year old this morning with my tail between my legs and admit the drawn out fight we'd endured was my f...my fau...my fault, it was like being forced to army crawl through a tunnel of rose bushes.
She wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. They didn't match. The material was thin and it was chilly out...and quite frankly, I just wanted her to get dressed. I was patient and reasonable. She defied. I deflected with humor. She defied. I insisted and issued ultimatums. She stripped her clothes off, crawled onto her bed, curled into the fetal position and defied. She's a fierce opponent. The Rocky Balboa of defiance. It became clear to me at that point, that she really wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. Sooo...why couldn't I just let her wear her pajama's to the grocery store? What was the big deal? My ego. That was the big deal. Even as I heard myself swearing that she was coming with me whether or not she had clothes on her body, even as I felt myself picking up her tiny, naked body and pretending to walk to the car, the exhausted voice of reason which sits lodged somewhere behind an almost entirely dormant section of my brain screamed, "What are you doing? Let her put on her damn pajamas! It's okay to lose this battle!" The voice was right. It's usually right, yet for some reason I always choose to ignore instead of heed. It had to be my way, which in this instance was becoming "no way". I was turning the battle into a war and the combat had gone on for so long I almost couldn't bear to admit defeat. So much carnage over something so inconsequential and one half hour later, we were still at an impasse.
It hit me as I laid her back down on her bed, howling so loud I was sure she'd be heard through the double-pane windows, blocks away. I was also having a temper tantrum. I was angry because I wanted her to do what I wanted her to do and she wasn't complying. This little "control contest" was nothing more than me answering a tantrum with a tantrum. As I left her bedroom to collect myself; maybe remove the impediments of irrational thought clogging my synaptic flow, I asked myself some very important questions. Would wearing her pajamas to the store cause her physical or psychological harm? Would it cause anyone around her physical or psychological harm? Did I want to invest any more time in a fight I'd already lost or did I want to get my grocery shopping done and get on with my day? Answering the questions was easy. Facing accountability was not so easy. I've been told that as a parent I need to follow through with my decisions good, bad or indifferent. I'm not supposed to admit I'm wrong to my children, because it will show weakness. No matter how stupid the argument, once I deal the cards, I have to play the hand. No folding. As I sat staring at her bedroom door, listening to her sob, I looked back on all the struggles I'd had with my kids. I started to realize, for me anyway,that the fights were less about control and more about being afraid to admit I might have made a mistake. That would give my children the upper hand; a license to question my authority. And my children should never question my authority. Right? It's a dual-edged sword, isn't it? We want our kids to exercise common sense, to learn independence, to do what feels natural for them even when it means going against the grain (without putting themselves in danger, of course), but not if it means going against the rules. Even if the rules are the dumbest rules ever. And honestly, some of mine serve no purpose but to make my thank-less job a little easier. Or harder, depending on the time and day. If only I could have remembered to ask myself those questions before I engaged in our little, mental tug-of-war. Will it cause her harm? Will it cause anyone else harm? The course of action would have been clear and that would have made my morning so much easier. Unfortunately, some times we're too blinded by the fog to find the shore.
In the end it was me who waved the white flag, as it should have been. She put her pajamas back on, found her sneakers and sniffled up the stairs behind me. It felt hollow; the victory and the defeat. I was forgetting something. The most important part of the truce. I picked her up and held her. "I was wrong, Quinny. I was wrong and I'm sorry. I should have just let you wear your pajamas." "Okay." "I made...a mistake. Sometimes mommy's make mistakes." "Okay." And that was that, because my daughter fights hard, but she forgives harder. It's one of her best qualities. It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought; letting go of being right and admitting fault. There is nothing wrong or weak in admitting your child may actually be right or at the very least, not entirely wrong. They need to hear those words some times. They need to know that making a mistake or a bad judgement call, even as an adult isn't bad and that it does happen. A lot. That a mistake is a learning tool and a way to grow, and that it goes both ways.
