Something I Do Right

By Veronica

When Az the Husband and I married, along with our wedding vows we had a handful of private, informal agreements with each other. Some were simple: if we are dinner guests anywhere and I am served custard, he will quietly eat it for me, so I don’t look too rude (I hate custards. I do not understand why anyone considers sweet, milky slime a dessert. Blech). Other bargains had greater implications: he has complete liberty to determine the manner and method of our children’s baptisms, while I get to choose their names without any vetos or complaints from him.

But perhaps the most marriage-saving deal we made with each other was this: once we apologize for something, it is over. The argument ends. There are no recriminations, no further attacks, no resentful needling over the issue again. We are both proud, stubborn people and we hate to apologize. We discovered that the only way we could really admit we were wrong about anything was if we knew for certain that our apology would not be used as an opportunity in the next argument.

It hasn’t always been easy. By nature, I cling to anger much longer than Az does, and learning to get over it when he apologized was hard. Sometimes it still is. Fortunately, there’s not much that’s funnier than admitting that I wished he hadn’t apologized SO SOON, and our arguments don’t survive our laughter.

Now I am a mother and this deal applies to our children as well. When they do something that they shouldn’t, they receive a consequence and then the issue is over. It is done. After the time-out or apology or loss of privilege or what-have-you, the slate is clean and they get to start fresh. Once the consequence has been endured, we do not bring up past infractions. Learning the proper times to feel shame is an essential lesson of childhood (have you met adults who never feel shame? I have, and I do not want my children to be like them), but we do not harangue them with it. The time for shame is before you have said you are sorry. After you have said you are sorry, it is time for reassurance and comfort.

Forgiveness is a profoundly important part of life, undergirding much of human happiness. No one lives flawlessly. No one’s hands are perfectly clean. No nation has a bloodless history. Whether on the tiny level of teaching my four-year-old not to hit her sister, or the societal level of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, there is power in the notion that wrongs can be admitted and owned, and then laid to rest. It’s not that the wrongs are righted by their admission – who can right a wrong? – but that by acknowledging our own failings toward others, we can heal and move on with hope. We do not remained trapped in our own failures.

I want my daughters to know without doubt or hesitation that I love them, no matter what. There is perhaps no more important way for me to demonstrate this than how I respond to them when they do something wrong. By teaching them to face consequences in a way that is finite and forgivable, I hope to develop in them not only confidence in my love, but also confidence that there is still life and hope and goodness available for us after our own failures, moral or otherwise. I want them to know that life is not a trap of imperfections; that love is permanent, and renewal for the willing is always waiting just over that hill.

There are, of course, areas where this does not work seamlessly. When a betrayal of trust is forgiven, trust is not instantly restored. Trust has to be earned back. My own parents lovingly taught me this, and I will try to pass it on when my girls are old enough.

Still, this area of parenting is one where I am confident. Sometimes it’s worthwhile to look at the job we are doing and tell ourselves, “Yes. This is something I do right. Whatever other flaws I may have as a parent, our family will know this one important thing.”

What is the one big thing you know you are doing right as a parent?

Veronica also blogs at Toddled Dredge .