The slow-learner parents might not realize this until a year and a half later when their angry toddler refuses to take "no" for an answer and an epic battle of wills follows, ending with a sobbing heap of parent and a giggling toddler flinging applesauce and eating those smelly fruit puff things, because... well, because the winner in a battle of wills is the one without the to-do list.
Over my past decade of parentdom, there have been many times when, my child(ren) refuse to accept my wise guidance, my incessant pleading, or loud - dare I say - yelled instructions, and I've said and done things that I wish I could take back or do-over. Many of those times, the kids have deserved a do-over. But there is no pause or rewind in parenting, and maybe in the minor ways that is for the best.
I was pondering this the other day, as I often ponder things. After a not so "gold star" mom moment, I thought, wouldn't it be great if time could be returned, like the ill-fitting pair of jeans I impulsively pulled off the clearance rack and bought without trying on first? You could just grab your receipt for a crappy parenting moment and Father Time would pony-up a few fresh minutes that you could use a little wiser, or a little nicer?
But nothing is so simple... here's where this blog turns into more of a story... [roll dream sequence footage here... everything is wavy, and there are chimes!]
An old man sits behind a simple counter with a small cash register. His face is a web of wrinkles carved so deep into his flesh you wonder if they hurt. A beard, frizzled and white, falls from his face, ending somewhere behind the counter, just barely revealing the ironic "Got Time?" logo on his standard issue customer service polo shirt.
As I approach the counter I can see that while time has left its mark on his skin, hair and stature, it has spared his eyes, which remain bright and wise and kind.
He watches as I place my purse on the counter, waiting.
I feel a bit nervous and stumble over my words as I dig through my purse. "I'd like to return some time", I say, "Can I return some time?"
"Depends", replies the Old Man, "If it was truly poorly spent, I'd consider it, I suppose."
I pull out the first receipt, "Oh.." I say, "this was one of many times where I had to work and the kids were bored, If I had this time back, I'd spend it doing something they'd enjoy, or maybe something educational?"
The Old Man studies the receipt and passes it back to me. "I can't return this." He explains, "this was educational. Your children learned that life isn't always fun and games but it takes work and dedication. That's a valuable lesson they're learning."
"Okay." I say skeptically, "I understand, but what about this..." I pull out another receipt, a long one. "This is all the times my children have hurt themselves in some minor way, and I told them to "walk it off" or "you'll live". Surely I should have been more of a doting mother, tending to every paper cut and scratch, right?"
The Old Man laughed, "Did they live?"
"Yes."
"Then they learned that they can pick themselves up when they fall. You can't always be there for them. You don't really want to return that do you?" he asks.
"No, I suppose not." I agree. I dig through my purse determined to find some time he'd return.
"Oh! This one! You've got to agree this one is bad, I burdened the kids with a problem that was above their age range." I explain, "Money, house, car, people issues, I've probably given them too much information regarding all of them!"
The Old Man thinks for a moment, I thought I had finally got one, until he slid the receipt back across the counter. "No." he says, "Of course it's not ideal to make kids worry about grown up things, but none of these are out of their realm of understanding, and a little reality when they are little will make a lot of reality easier for them to handle when they are grown."
I frown. Man this old guy is tough! Frustrated, I start lining up my remaining receipts, "What about this one? The time I didn't take time to admire their art work? Or this one, my poor kid had a nervous breakdown at the table when I made him eat his peas? Or this - when I didn't let my daughter go to a party and it broke her heart? You've got to admit these are..."
"Not returnable." He interrupts, pointing at each receipt he explains, "When you didn't have time to look, he had time to be proud of himself without others approval, and this one, well... peas are good for you..."
"That's what I said!"
"And this one? There are other parties right?"
I nod.
"And she learned that missing out on a little fun here and there isn't the end of the world."
"Right, Okay..." I say, "but, I saved the worst for last...."
"Alright." says the Old Man, "Let's see it."
I gingerly pull the last receipt from my bag and slide it across the counter. "This happens more than I'd like to admit." Feeling ashamed I explain. "I often can't shake a bad mood and it effects the way I treat people, including my kids. If the work is piling up, or I have an annoying client hounding me, or nothing is getting done around the house, I get short tempered and snappy and have literally no patience for what is really normal kid behavior. No amount of taking deep breaths seems to help and I feel terrible for my tone and attitude when they deserve better."
"I see." says the man looking at the receipt. He opens a drawer behind the counter and takes out a pen. Finally! I think. At least I'll get a second chance to right this wrong.
Taking his time he scribbles something on the receipt and slides it back to me. Before he removes his hand he asks "Do your children know you love them?"
I nod. He releases the receipt and I read what he's written. In shaky old man handwriting I see "No Returns. All Time is Final."
I look up at him confused and a little annoyed.
"Every day I sit at this desk and decline those who want to turn back the clocks, my clocks." he says.
"But... but why do you have a return desk?"
"Because," he explains. "its important to review your life's moments, especially the ones you're not proud of, so that you can learn from them and decide how you'll react when you encounter those situations again in the future."
I nod.
"And," he continues, "most often the moments you feel you're failing as a parent are the moments your kids are learning the most valuable lessons. They can learn their ABCs and 123s from anyone, but they need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love."
They need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love.
"Their trust and belief in your unconditional love lets them see past the tone that comes with your bad mood. It teaches them empathy... and," he says with a chuckle "when to run their little butts to their room and quickly clean it before mom really blows her top."
I smile.
"The best parents not only worry about their mistakes, but they own them. Take time after the moment has passed to explain or apologize and in return teach your children the most important lesson, that being perfect is not possible, but being accountable is."
As I stand there wrapping my mind around his wisdom, the old man starts to fade away, before he's gone he says "Your flaws build their character."
[Insert wavy coming out of a dream sequence and chimes here]
Our flaws build their character.
Imagine how little the child of a perfect parent would know.
Trying to be the best parent is still the goal, of course, but when I inevitably mess up, I don't need to save the receipt in hopes that I can get a re-do on that moment someday. I can own it. I can explain it and I can apologize when necessary. Saying "sorry" doesn't fix mistakes, but explaining them builds a base of understanding. With that base, my kids will learn compassion, empathy and a way to understand people, not by what their actions are, but why they do those actions. And hopefully, this knowledge will help them to grow up to be better parents, and people, than we are.
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