“What! Why does he
get to?” Spencer objected.
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“Because he’s in fifth grade.”
“Well, I’m in fourth.”
“Well, Zach didn’t get to do that when he was in fourth
grade.” I crossed my fingers on the
steering wheel, knowing Zach has had this privilege before, but NOT in fourth
grade.
I feigned confidence in my statement and he sniffed out my
half-truth like a blood hound.
“Yeah but he did when he was in 3rd.”
Busted.
“Yes and it was a mistake.” Then I asked one of the most
ridiculous questions I’ve ever uttered. Ridiculous because the obvious answer
is ‘NO’ and ridiculous because I was reasoning with an impassioned fourth
grader. But apparently I was comfortable with that degree of ridiculous so I
asked, “Do you want me to make the same mistakes on you that I made on Zach?”
He practically yelled, “Yes!”
Sometimes when you don’t know what to say, it’s best to say
nothing. Kurt’s mantra is “less is more,” and I am always telling the boys “The
best way to stop an argument is to stop talking. Stop fueling the argument.”
So I didn’t even respond. Humph.
But from the back seat Levi took over my side of the
argument, “You want her to make mistakes
on you?”
Sometimes Levi surprises me. He’s funny and random, but he
pays attention, and sometimes I think he’s wise beyond his years. Part of me
wanted to reach into the back seat and hi-five him in an act of mother/son
solidarity.
Spencer picked up right where he left off. “Well if she
makes the same mistakes on me, at least I would get to ‘do that.’”
I was rolling my eyes and laughing on the inside over his
flawed reasoning. And with the “eyes in the back of my head” I thought I saw
Levi rolling his too.
Stay strong, Levi.
We’re in this together.
But Levi wasn’t rolling his eyes, he was still engaged in
full-on verbal combat. “But Spencer, that’s only one mistake. What about the 70 million others you’d have to go
through?!”
Yeah, what about the …wait…what?
Suddenly I realize I’ve mistaken solidarity for incredulity.
It was as if he was trying to coax Spencer out of his dark
and illogical argument. Pleading with him to see the dire implications: Can you bear the thought of her making
more mistakes than she already has?
It’s true. I’ve made mistakes. A lot of them. Mistakes I
don’t want to repeat even if Spencer wants
to suffer them.
Mothering mistakes are inevitable. But I’m also beginning to
see they’re necessary.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not conjuring up parental
screw-ups in my free time. My mistakes don’t require planning—I’m what you
might call “a natural.”
But if it weren’t for my mistakes, I’d have no reason to
demonstrate a humble (even embarrassing) apology.
If not for my mistakes, how would I show what repentance
looks like?
And without mistakes, my boys would have fewer opportunities
to demonstrate grace.
What if our parenting mistakes are the classroom where we
teach the language of apology and the posture of humility? What if our
embarrassed admissions are an opportunity for our kids to extend grace—to
us.
And someday, when they realize their own mistakes, they will
neither be surprised nor completely devastated. By God’s grace, they will have
learned to acknowledge, apologize, turn from it and receive grace and
forgiveness.
And that is the crux of the gospel: We receive grace in
exchange for mistakes.
Even when there are 70 million of them.
