I’ve reached a point in my life where admitting I’m wrong doesn’t faze me. Sure, it’s not enjoyable; being wrong signals that I have more to learn and areas to improve. It forces me to confront uncomfortable truths. While it’s easier to be right, I don’t struggle against the tide just to feel validated.
My 8-year-old son, however, hasn’t yet grasped this concept. It would be surprising if he did; he’s a small, stubborn bundle of defensiveness when he knows he’s made a mistake. But that doesn’t mean I won’t encourage him to embrace his courage when he messes up.
For perfectionists and rule-followers like my son, accepting failure or being in trouble is a daunting task. I can see how intertwined his self-worth is with doing the right thing. His motivation to receive praise is strong, but when he believes he’s failed, he becomes paralyzed. Whether it’s struggling with math or navigating friendships, he tends to turn his frustration inward. He questions his intelligence and worries about being liked.
I quickly remind him that those fears are unfounded. I refuse to let him play the victim, which often leads to defensiveness. That’s when he fights to justify his actions, even when he knows he’s in the wrong.
Recently, while playing with a friend, my son seized the chance to abandon that friend and play with another neighbor without a word. When I realized he wasn’t returning to include both friends, I went to speak with him. Upon seeing me, he was furious. He wasn’t interested in hearing my perspective.
I asked if he had checked in with his other friend before leaving. He hadn’t, dismissing it as unimportant. I explained that ensuring his friend felt included was vital.
That’s when the situation escalated. He burst into tears, insisting it was fine and that he wanted to play with the other friend—alone. When I suggested he check in with the first friend, he accused me of being mean for not letting him play how he wished. I then presented him with alternatives: he could return to play with the first friend and join the new one later, check in with both friends, or go to his room for being rude.
After a dramatic exit, claiming I never let him do what he wanted, he stormed off. I knew he would retreat rather than face conflict, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook. I apologized to the friend who was being left out and invited her to play with others in our yard. Thankfully, she accepted, and while my son was sulking upstairs, the other kids were happily playing.
I questioned whether I had overreacted. Did I make too much of a fuss over his behavior? Was I hovering too closely, complicating matters unnecessarily?
Then I recalled a time when my son came home upset because a friend had done the same to him. He had felt abandoned and sad. I wanted him to connect that experience with what he had done to someone else.
When I entered his room, he immediately launched into how unjust I was. I attempted to explain how his actions must have affected his friend, but he only cried harder, insisting he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone and just wanted to play. I reiterated that checking in first was crucial and that he could still play with his new friend, but that might mean including the first friend too.
“I’m only 8! How was I supposed to know?” he wailed. “Everyone hates me!”
I reassured him nobody hated him and that it was my role to guide him in becoming a good friend. “I don’t want to learn how to communicate!” he protested.
I emphasized the importance of understanding and working through these situations, even when they involve tough emotions. “But I’m scared, Mama!” he confessed.
Feelings can be intimidating. I’ve learned from experience that avoiding difficult conversations isn’t the solution. He will undoubtedly face similar challenges in the future, but I felt this was an essential moment to encourage his growth. I refuse to raise a child who lacks the courage to admit wrongdoing.
“It’s okay to be scared. You can feel however you want, but it’s crucial to consider others’ feelings too. Let’s go check on your friends.”
I could see he wanted to do the right thing; he’s a rule-follower at heart. Yet his defensiveness stemmed from the fear of admitting he hurt someone, a notion he would never embrace willingly. He lacked the confidence to accept that being wrong didn’t equate to being a bad person; it merely indicated there was more to learn.
Taking his hand, I led him downstairs. He sat on the couch, claiming he couldn’t breathe. I explained that was just nerves, and it was perfectly fine. I offered to lead the conversation, but he needed to come outside with me to make a plan with his friends. I asked if I could demonstrate how to navigate this situation. The right thing was to rectify the wrong.
As we approached, I could feel him tense up. I kept my questions simple, asking his first friend if she was okay and whether she wanted to join him and the other friend. If that wasn’t possible, playing at another time was still an option.
After confirming everything was alright and that both friends were happy to play together, my son finally relaxed. Before he dashed off to join them, I pulled him in for a hug, expressing how proud I was of him. I acknowledged how scary it can be to speak up and face emotions, but we had managed to navigate it together. This experience will repeat itself throughout his life, and while I can support him, I want to empower him to handle such moments independently.
To excel at anything, practice is essential. I was showing my son that embracing vulnerability is a skill worth cultivating.
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Summary:
In this article, the author reflects on a personal experience with her son when he displayed mean behavior by abandoning a friend during play. She navigates the situation with patience, emphasizing the importance of understanding emotions and communication. The narrative highlights the challenges of raising a child who struggles with admitting mistakes and the value of teaching them to consider others’ feelings.