My youngest is twelve, and it's a spacey time of life. There are so many distractions -- the simple, still-lingering pleasures of being a kid (Legos); the weird and uncertain pressures of adolescence (text messages from girls!).
As anyone who has ever lived or worked with me can tell you, I'm spacey too, but mine is a permanent condition and it bugs me a lot. So when my kid sits staring out the window while he's supposed to be determining the least common multiple, somehow to me it's doubly insulting.
Drives Me Nuts.
The other day he was under considerable pressure (for a 6th grader), preparing for a band competition, worrying over his drum solo, painstakingly grinding through some forgotten and overdue math. The afternoon had already been a succession of missteps and Oh Yeahs, and I was frustrated with him for being so behind. (I am often "behind.")
The next morning I checked over his math and at the top of the paper it said in bold letters MAKE SURE TO SHOW YOUR WORK. And what do you know -- he'd done all the problems in his head and just circled the correct answers. (My brain doesn't work that way; Garret's does.)
I was FURIOUS. SO Irresponsible!
In the thirty hurried minutes before the bus was to arrive, Garret worked through those problems all over again, writing out the related arithmetic while I made his breakfast and lunch, shoved things into his backpack and then hurried him onto the bus right as it wheezed away. Whew!
Later that morning as I cleaned my way through the house, picking up errant dishes and re-boxing the map pencils in rainbow order, still there on the kitchen table I found his now perfectly executed math paper, including the associated arithmetic. He'd even remembered to put his name on it.
I was ENRAGED. WHAT WAS HE THINKING? WHERE WAS HIS BRAIN? WHY IS HE DOING THIS TO ME? WHY DIDN'T WE JUST HAVE PETS?
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When I was a new driver, my dad let me use his car, a 1972 Ford GranTorino. To me it was just his old, safe and paid-for hand-me-down, but I've since learned it was a wicked-fast and seriously cool muscle car. Just like the one on Starsky and Hutch, but silver with no crazy lightning stripe. It had been the first car he ever purchased new, and when I got it in 1983 it was still pretty much perfect.
One summer day, in a spacey moment on my way to work at Foley's department store, I turned left on green (no arrow). The oncoming car rightfully continued straight through the light as well, and t-boned my dad's heretofore unscathed Ford.
Most anyone who knew Dad back then would say he was (still can be) an intimidating presence. And in a moment of sheer stupidity I'd wrecked his car. I was ashamed and terrified.
When I tearfully told him the news, he first asked if anyone had been hurt. (No one had.) He listened to my report and, once he had the facts, asked only one more question.
"Did you do it on purpose?"
"No," I blubbered. "I just didn't see him until it was too late."
A few interminable seconds clicked by as he watched my face.
"Well then I'm glad you're ok, baby. We'll just get it fixed." And then he hugged me very tightly and it was done.
That day, my dad taught me several things. The value of well-timed mercy instead of justice. To be mindful of peoples' true intentions and circumstances. And how to treat others the way I would want to be treated if I was in their spot.
He also taught me how to accept the plain truth (I'd just wrecked his really cool car) and then focus on what really matters (I wasn't hurt and the car could be fixed) -- instead of reacting out of emotion.
As mother to two teenaged boys, I think about that moment often.
It's the easiest thing in the world to react to and dwell on all that's goes wrong. We live in a flawed universe; disappointment, sickness, betrayal, debt and heartache abound.
I hope you'll consider that it is a worthy discipline to find the good and choose it as our focus. That's the topic of my LifeInspired free group coaching session this month -- Escaping Chronic Negativity. (This isn't naive cheerleading, rainbows and unicorns in rose-colored glasses. See sidebar for details.)
So what did I do about Garret's forgotten math paper? First, I talked to a trusted girlfriend about kids and whether or not we are ruining ours by helping them too much. I calmed down and prayed for wisdom. I thought about my sweet dad and remembered that his mercy hasn't ruined my life so far. Then I wrote Garret a little note, stuck it on the paper and took it up to his school right before time for math class.
The note read, "Hey Goofy. You're welcome. I love you.
- Mom."
