Morning chaos: “I need more juice!” my 6-year-old announces. “I can get it!” she insists as I automatically start to get up. I catch myself and settle back down, observing her dash into the kitchen with her cup. She strains to open the refrigerator, nearly knocking over the ketchup in the process. My grip on the table tightens, and I feel my muscles tense.
She leans back, wrestling the nearly full gallon of juice from the fridge — it seems heavier than she is. Inhale, exhale. I remind myself of all the parenting advice about allowing kids to do things independently. What exactly does it teach them? I can’t recall. My eyebrow begins to twitch. All I can think about is her slowly tipping the gallon toward her tiny cup. My stomach clenches in anticipation. Suddenly, juice spills out, sending the cup crashing to the floor with a resounding thud, a vibrant cascade splashing everywhere.
“Oops!” she giggles, trying to set the carton upright as juice continues to pour over the sides.
“It’s alright,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing a smile as I hand her a paper towel. “Mistakes happen!”
As soon as my kids leave for school, I go out of my way to avoid their rooms. They make their beds as best they can, and while it may suffice for many parents, I’m not like most. I’m a recovering control freak. Eventually, I must venture upstairs for something, cupping my hands around my eyes like a horse wearing blinders to keep calm.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” I chant silently, though I know the sheets are likely crumpled under the comforter, probably brushing against the floor.
My impulse to manage everything extends far beyond milk and messy beds. I have to bite my tongue when my daughter descends with a tangled ponytail. I sit on my hands as they slowly piece together a puzzle — my stomach churning as they painstakingly fit each piece before finally finding the right one. The temptation to snatch the brush, the puzzle piece, or the juice carton and handle it myself is almost unbearable.
So far, being a control freak has had its perks. In my professional life, I got things done right and on time. My bosses depended on me, even if my coworkers didn’t always appreciate my hovering. My life was streamlined, my credit score was stellar, and my sheets were never a mess. The only downside? I absolutely despise flying — I can’t stand being out of control.
“You know you’ll have to change your ways once the baby arrives,” my friends said when I was pregnant, often while I was organizing their junk drawers. “This little one will turn your life upside down.”
“Sure, right. By the way, do you have a measuring tape and a circular saw? I can make something amazing for you!”
Turns out, they were right.
I’m working hard to alter my habits, but breaking old patterns is tough. I understand that children need to attempt and fail (often several times) to truly learn. Natural consequences are valuable — you must stumble before you can walk. The crumpled sheets under the comforter won’t hurt anyone. Repeat after me: The crumpled sheets under the comforter won’t hurt anyone.
My kids are learning resilience; they’re developing grit. And judging by the dramatic twitch of my eyebrow as it takes them 20 minutes to tie their shoes each morning, I’m learning right alongside them.
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