Dessert of Choice: Classic Crow or Humble Pie (or a little slice of both)

A very interesting parenting situation arose the other day, one in which made me the one to do some back-pedaling ... and again, just proves to me that 1) parenting is the toughest job on the planet, and b) I can survive some serious chowing down of Humble Pie when the situation arises.

Every once in the bluest of blue moons we have what Don and Aidan have dubbed a "Family Movie Night." This so very rarely happens, primarily because my kids' bedtime is at 7:30 p.m. -- not a time conducive to movie-watching. I'm also quite lacking in indulgence when it comes to letting them stay up, for history proves that it's just not worth it. Cranky kids on the following day do not justify staying up for a movie. And thirdly, while I'm (kind of) counting here, I am a selfish human being. I am a miser of my time. All day I am clothed in children. When evening rolls around, it's mine ... mine ... mine ... !

Don, however, doesn't feel the same way. And I get it -- I really do. Now that he's a regular working guy and not a pastor, he doesn't see much of the kids. He comes home around 6:00 p.m., we eat dinner, and we have a short play time afterward before the kids hit the sack and I finally get a chance to exhale. So we compromised a bit, starting the movie early, which includes a picnic in the living room before the tube, and giving us enough time to finish the movie in time for bed. We're all happy. And like I said, this is so rare an occasion that I'm OK with giving in a bit.

Recently Don (interestingly) asked for a Family Movie Night, and I in my queenliness granted his boon with my sovereign beneficence. He'd worked a tremendous amount of overtime during the week, and he hardly saw the kids at all other than a quick hello/off-to-work morning hug. Exhibiting as much excitement as a five-year-old, he said he couldn't wait to tell Aidan of the plan.

Don't! I commanded.

He's not around Aidan much. He doesn't know what I deal with each day - the attitude, the irrationality, the little boy being a little boy. I felt in my motherly gut the threat of something back-firing. Just wait, just wait ... Don't tell him until the 11th hour so he won't do something to blow it.

So Friday was the night. Having felt that we waited long enough, I decided to tell Aidan on the way home from school of this good news. It was 3:00 p.m. and Don would be home around 5:30 p.m. Just two and a half hours to get through ... what could happen? He can't blow it.

I warmed up my audience. I built suspense. I played it up. His smile grew bigger with each word, his giggles became bubblier with each sentence. Finally the climax -- I told him what we planned. He was ecstatic. I was overjoyed at his cuteness. But then ... I asked a simple question.

"Isn't this great?"

His response turned the joyful atmosphere to ice. Darkness descended upon the car.

"NO!" he screamed at me.

I was sucker-punched ... and I lost it. I had had an excruciatingly long week. I had had my fill of this Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde phenomena. I couldn't take any more. I was sick of this crappy attitude. I was sick of a mere child thinking he can call the shots. I was sick of trying to do something nice for my kid, only to be met with a bad attitude ... again. I was sick of the whole thing. I unleashed all that pent-up frustration, all that fury. I don't get it. I don't get why kids have to be brats. I don't get why kids can't simply enjoy something good that comes their way. I don't get why kids have to talk back for no reason. I don't get why kids feel the need to fight all the time.

His attitude really was bad. And he was duly disciplined. I took away what I just offered: the Family Movie Night.

He was stunned into silence. For the rest of the ride home his head was buried in his lap (he's one flexible little mourner). Not a peep. An angry silence filled that car's interior. When we got home, the tears came. He was so hurt, but I was too angry to really care. Every Super Nanny tells you, "Take away something that's important to him." I wanted him to feel it. I wanted him to see what happens when he pulls that kind of attitude.

We went inside. Everything felt horrible. After about 20 minutes or so, I sat down next to him on the couch. I asked him if he had anything to say.

"Sorry," he mumbled.
"For what?" I asked.
"For saying what I said to you."

I asked him if he knew why it made me so angry. He paused for a minute. Then he looked a little puzzled. I asked him again. Why would you scream "NO!" at me like that? What makes you think that's OK?

His answer for me was not what I expected.

"When you said we could watch a movie tonight, I thought you meant you were going to take us all to the movie theater. I didn't want to watch something at home. I thought we were all going out together. I thought that would be nice."

Ooohhhhhh .... Boy, did I feel like a piece of dirt.

All of that was in his head, in his little heart. Unfortunately what came out -- that one obnoxious word -- was something very different.

My boy wasn't pulling an obnoxious attitude. He wasn't being a brat. He was disappointed, that's all. He misunderstood what I said, when he was hoping for something else. Except the problem is this: he's 5. He's an incredibly articulate little boy, but in that moment of great disappointment he wasn't sure what to say. And what he did manage to say came out so wrong. And I so horribly misunderstood him.

I pulled my boy onto my lap. He started to cry -- really cry -- as I wrapped my arms around him. I then took his sweet face in my hands and I apologized to him. I explained why I was the one who needed to say I was sorry -- that even though his response wasn't the best choice (he said he was sorry for that), I didn't know he was just trying to convey to me what he was feeling. I apologized for my temper and for quickly reacting instead of taking the time to hear him. Now I understood.

He smiled at me through his tears -- the most beautiful smile in the world. I asked him for his forgiveness, and he threw his arms around my neck. "I love you, Mommy," he said in a gush. I can't tell you how good it felt ... to be honest with him, to talk it out. This was not an easy situation, but even Mommy makes mistakes ... quite a few of them, actually. But there's something about owning up to your part of it, to not taking the road of "Mother Knows Best" all the time, to admitting that I am fallible, I make mistakes, I misjudged something in a big way. Those forkfuls of Humble Pie were tough to chew; that Classic Crow got stuck in my throat on the way down. But once it got down ... it wasn't so bad.

I'm feeling better. My precious boy was happy, sitting on the living room floor reading a book, humming Beethoven's 9th Symphony (I'm not kidding), waiting for Daddy to come home. As crazy as it sounds, this was a good experience, overall. Easy? No way. I'd much rather eat cheesecake. But it was good.