The Time I Reacted Badly To My Kid
The Time I Reacted Badly To My Kid
Being Trusting
The Story
I’ve often been told that the most wonderful and painful thing about parenting is seeing yourself in your children. As my oldest becomes a teen, I’m noticing it more and more. The other day, he mentioned at the dinner table that he’d forgotten to go to a band lesson at school that day. I reacted quickly and badly, with a scolding tone— because I’m also a band teacher, and I’m friends with his teacher, and I admit I felt embarrassed that he’d forgotten his lesson.
But when I saw his expression, I knew that I’d messed up. I could tell exactly what he was feeling: "Why can’t you just trust me to work this out on my own?” I could tell because I was a similarly independent kid, and that’s exactly how I felt whenever my parents scolded me.
Everyone has a different definition of love. Mine has always led with trust. When I was growing up, it was vital for me that my parents could trust me with a phone in my room; a car; unmonitored schoolwork. If I screwed up, I needed them to trust me that I could fix it. I had confidence in myself, and I asked for help if I needed it. If they needed more evidence to trust me, I’d keep giving it and giving it.
Unfortunately, sometimes people just can’t trust, no matter how much you prove it to them. I’m not talking about my parents, who did (and still do) trust me with a lot, but with other family members and close friends, a lack of trust eats away at the relationship. It becomes a wall that I can’t get around, a block to further intimacy. In some cases, I’ve had to very painfully let go of a relationship because I realized I was stuck in a loop of trying and failing to prove myself to the other person.
But that’s a last resort. Since being trustworthy is so important to me, I long ago decided that trusting others would be a mirroring priority. Unless I have clear evidence that I should not trust someone, I’ll make a leap of faith. I do this most often with my students, who— at ages nine, ten and eleven— are just learning to be sneaky. Sometimes I’m 99% sure they haven’t done what they’re claiming— practice their instrument, say. But I don’t fight them on it. Instead, I choose to believe them, and over time, most of them become more trustworthy.
As soon as I saw what I’d done by scolding my son, I went into repair mode. I apologized to him and assured him that I trusted him to take care of it. And he did— he scheduled a make-up lesson with the teacher the very next day, and he still has a perfect average in that class. I’m proud of him, but I won’t forget my poor reaction. I never want to be the one to put up that wall. I want him to know that I’ll be on his side, trusting him, no matter what.
A Retraction
Last week, I posted a very sweet story about my husband buying me a special gift. At the close of the story, I wrote:
Attention is love; love is happiness.
I’d like to take those words back, please, even though no one has asked me to— not because there isn’t some truth to them, but because when I started this newsletter, I promised myself I’d lead with fullness and nuance. Short, quippy thoughts that boil down highly complex ideas aren’t my goal. Maybe I’ll explore those ideas more in a future post; for now, I want to shore up my trustworthiness with you, dear reader, by recommitting to the heart and soul of Good Character.
Stuff You Might Like To Know
I’m currently reading FUNNY STORY by Emily Henry, which finally came up on my library holds! I like it, but not as much as some of her previous books. I’m doing a lot of heavy nonfiction reading for my novel preparation, so I appreciate light and fun books for pleasure.
I’m wearing this new dress that I ordered from Stitch Fix. It’s one of those just-enough-shape, just-enough-drape, gorgeous-fabric dresses.
I’m watching HACKS season one with my husband— it’s so good, and since we just came back from Las Vegas, we’re enjoying the scenery.
Here’s to us, in all of our imperfect, striving goodness.
Keep hoping. Keep caring. Keep trying.