October 3, 2017
I really did give her a heads-up. I mean, I tried. But there she was, just standing there, blissfully unaware of the ticking clock. We were running late—she knew it, I knew it. So, I warned her again.
Still, she remained motionless.
I decided it was time for a countdown. Thirty seconds to get ready. “1… 2… 3… 4… 5…” I could feel my patience wearing thin. “You need shoes and socks. Now!”
More counting ensued. “6… 7… 8… 9… 10…” And yet, she continued to stare defiantly at me.
“Don’t make me reach 30.” I was practically pleading, but she just stood there. “11… 12… 13… 14… 15…”
This was not our first rodeo. The morning battles, the stubbornness, the endless stare-downs. I was done. “16… 17… 18… 19… 20…”
I snapped. I took one of her beloved Lego sets—one she had pieced together with pride—and smashed it. Just like I had threatened. The pieces scattered across the floor, and she bolted to her room in tears. I didn’t even reach 30.
I had warned her that I would take a Lego set as punishment. I wanted to send a clear message about following directions. But as soon as I did it, a wave of panic washed over me. “What have I done?!”
Silently, she got ready for school while I scrambled to pick up the tiny Lego pieces, which had rolled under the table and behind the piano. It was a fruitless effort. We were so late that breakfast was out of the question. I hastily bagged some fruit and cereal, and we left the house in silence.
After dropping her off, I drove to work, unable to shake the weight of my actions. In a single moment, I had created a memory that would stick with her forever.
I called my wife to talk it out. She listened, as she always does. “They’re little,” she reminded me. “We only have them for such a short time.” And she was right. Instead of teaching a lesson, I had just created a wound.
When I finished work, it was dark outside. As I drove home, I took a detour to a toy store. I spotted the very Lego set I had destroyed—the one with the spinning rocket ship rides—and bought it on impulse.
Walking into the house, I found my daughter already in her pajamas. When she saw the Lego set, her face lit up. I handed it to her, and with a heartfelt apology, I said, “I didn’t handle things well this morning. I’m really sorry.” She hugged me tightly.
She immediately dumped the pieces on the floor and began rebuilding. We were starting fresh, but I knew I had left a mark—one that was my fault.
Yet, I can strive to do better. I will.
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In summary, I learned the hard way that parenting can lead to hasty decisions, and it’s important to recognize the impact of our actions. While I can’t undo the past, I can commit to being better moving forward.