There’s a particular kind of guilt that comes with looking at forgotten homework on the kitchen counter and knowing you could get it to school before the bell.
You know exactly where it goes in the backpack. You know how hard she worked on the assignment inside. And you can already picture her reaching into her bag, feeling around for it, and realizing it’s still sitting right where she left it.
So you grab your keys.
At least, that’s my instinct. I’m raising three girls, and I can be halfway to solving a problem before one of them has even finished telling me about it. Sometimes I have to stop and ask myself whether she needs my help or whether I just want the feeling I’m having to go away.
Because if I take the folder to school, both of us get some relief. She gets to turn in her homework, and I get to go home knowing she didn’t have to sit through that awful little moment when the teacher asked for it.
But if I make that drive every time, I become part of her system for remembering things and her system works beautifully, as long as I’m available to get in the car.
One missed assignment might teach her more about getting ready the night before than a month of me calling, “Do you have everything?” from the front door. She might decide to put her folder in her backpack as soon as she finishes her homework. She might have to ask her teacher whether she can turn it in late. Both are things she can do herself, and there’s a particular kind of pride that comes from realizing you can clean up your own mess.
Homework is an easy example. It gets harder when the stakes feel bigger to them.
Maybe one of my girls spends the money she saved on something she wanted right then, and a week later she can’t afford the thing she’d been talking about for a month. I can buy it for her. I can even come up with a good reason, but having to wait gives her a chance to remember how that choice felt the next time she has money in her hand.
Or maybe she says something hurtful to her sister, and by bedtime she’s ready for everybody to get over it. I could smooth it over because I’m tired and would like to finish one evening without refereeing. But she can sit beside her sister and say what she did. She can listen when her sister tells her why it hurt. And she can learn that an apology is hers to offer, even when forgiveness takes longer than she’d like.
There’s a kind of discomfort that produces something. The embarrassment of having to explain what happened can teach honesty. The frustration of starting over can teach patience. The disappointment of falling short can teach a child to look at what went wrong and decide what she wants to do differently. I can talk about those things all day. My girls still need a chance to find out what they feel like.
When I rush in every time, I can keep them small in ways I’d never intend. I can make the phone call so often that they never hear themselves get through one with a shaky voice. I can settle the disagreement so quickly that they never get to see what happens when they find the words on their own.
Of course, sometimes I’ll take the folder. I forget things, too, and I’m grateful for the people who help me when I do. Part of being their mother is knowing when one of my girls needs a little grace and when I’ve made the same trip enough times to know we need a different morning routine.
The part I’m still learning is how to stay close when I’ve decided to let a consequence stand. I can sit beside her on the couch while she tells me how embarrassed she was. I can say, “I know that felt awful,” and give her a minute before I ask what she wants to do tomorrow. I can listen while she practices what she’ll say to her teacher and let her be the one who says it.
I imagine I’ll always see that folder on the counter and think about grabbing my keys, but I want my girls to be able to come home and tell me what went wrong, even when they know I’m going to leave the next step up to them. I want them to know I’ll make room on the couch either way.
(Paige Gurgainers is a mom of three girls, digital journalist for Webster Parish Journal.)