kids

He Is Never Going to Say It’s Okay

Posted on by row20blog

Last week, we traveled to Kansas City and Chicago to see some baseball and visit family. On Day Three of the trip, the plan was to catch a day game, then fly from KC to Chicago.

At the game, his third in as many days, my son had a meltdown that may or may not have been nationally televised. I took him out of the seats to a spot where he could “get in a calm body.” (That is what I said, because no matter how much I might have thought it, telling an exhausted four-year-old to get his shit together so I can watch the baseball game would have been very poor parenting.)

We were just starting to get in our calm bodies when I received an expletive-laced text from my husband. It seems he’d gotten a text alert from the airline that our flight was scheduled to leave in 90 minutes. Odd, since it was 2:30pm and the flight he booked departed at 7:30pm.

He came flying out of the stands, most definitely not in his calm body, and the three of us rushed out to our rental car. Actually, rental car is a misnomer here. It was more of a rental behemoth. This thing was a beast, a fact that will soon become relevant. I drove the getaway tank while my husband tried to figure out what was going on with our flight.

As it turned out, the airline canceled our 7:30 pm flight and rebooked us on a 4:00 pm flight. When my husband inquired as to why no one notified him, he was told “We sent you an email.” Evidently, American Airlines is completely unfamiliar with the concept of firewalls, spam filters, etc. Email is a wholly inadequate method of conveying important changes to travel itineraries, but I digress.

It was clear we weren’t going to make the 4:00 flight. We had to return the rental, check bags, wrestle a four-year-old, and get me through security at KCI without an ID (I lost it during the trip).

For the uninitiated, security at Kansas City International Airport is no fucking joke. We log considerable travel miles in our extended family, and we are unanimously agreed that KCI has the most hard-assed security operation of any airport we’ve ever flown out of. This is probably the only issue on which my family can achieve consensus. Getting through a regular airport without an ID would be hard enough. Despite assurances from the delightfully friendly people running both the KCI and the TSA Twitter accounts, I knew it would be damned difficult to get through security in Kansas City with no ID.

(Some of you frequent fliers – you know who you are – may be reading this and smugly thinking, “The abbreviation for Kansas City International Airport is MCI, not KCI.” You are correct. But no one who is actually from the KC area calls it MCI – we call it KCI, period.)

We pulled into a gas station to fill up the rental freighter. I then decided to park in one of the station’s spaces while my husband utilized his considerable technology arsenal to find a means of escape from KC to Chicago.

Because I was driving an absurdly enormous SUV, and I was sitting up higher than I’m used to, I failed to see a cone in the parking spot. In my defense, one could not accurately describe the cone as orange. The cone was past its glorious, conspicuous prime and was now a faded peach color. That said, I still should have seen it, and I didn’t, and I ran that fucker over. Just mowed it down. I tried to back up in a vain effort to free the sad cone, but that just made matters worse.

About the time I realized the cone was wedged up under the suburban attack vehicle, an employee came flying out of the service station. He lit into me about running over the cone.

I’m a Midwesterner. I am deeply uncomfortable with causing any sort of distress or damage to others or their property. Instinctively, I began to apologize, profusely and sincerely. The man was unmoved. He kept yelling at me about the cone. The incredulous, disgusted expression on his face said what little he left unspoken regarding his estimation of my intelligence.

I continued to apologize.

Then my four-year-old piped up from the back seat.

“Mommy, he is never going to say it’s okay.”

I sat back in my seat, caught off guard by the truth that just came out of my son’s mouth.

You know what, kid? You’re right. This man is never, ever going to accept my apologies and say, “It’s okay.” This is a lost cause.

By this time, the man had retrieved his cone. Seeing that it was still intact, I drove away, catching one final glimpse of him shaking his head at me in the rear-view mirror.

I’ve been replaying this incident in my head since it happened. I’ve come to the conclusion that my son was on to something. Sometimes, the other person is never going to say it’s okay. There are some situations, big and small, in which we never get closure.

I’m a big believer in the importance of apologies. If I’ve wronged someone, I believe it’s incumbent upon me to try and fix it. I can’t undo what’s already done, but I can learn and, with a little grace and luck, move on stronger and better than I was before. The same is true if the tables are turned, and I’m the “injured party,” for lack of a better term.

There are times, however, when a thing is so broken it can’t be fixed. Or the other person can’t meet me where I am, even if where I am is far beyond the halfway mark. How do I “get right” with myself and in my spirit when there is no closure? How do I know with certainty the other person is never going to say “It’s okay,” or that I am never going to be able to say “It’s okay” to someone else, and give myself permission to move forward when it means moving away?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll ask my kid.

A Good Place to Start

Posted on by row20blog

It was my fault we were rushed. My four-year-old son was on Spring Break from preschool and, not being on our regular schedule, I lost track of time. Suddenly, I realized we had minutes to get out the door for an appointment.

Was my son still in his pajamas? At 3:15 in the afternoon? Yes. Yes he was. We do Spring Break right in our house. Except when don’t, because we fail to give ourselves enough time to prepare for a timely departure. By “we,” I mean me. And by “ourselves,” I mean myself. I am the designated adult in this scenario.

I unceremoniously switched off PJ Masks (if you don’t know what that is, count your blessings and move on) and started barking out orders to put down toys and put on clothes. As all parents know, this is a highly effective strategy for managing small children. They respond beautifully to this approach. They care deeply about punctuality, and frantic rushing always produces the desired result.

Parent: “Get dressed right now! We are LATE!”

Child: “Oh, I understand. Let me put down this fun toy and focus on the task at hand. Anything you choose for me to wear will be perfectly acceptable. Let me be as cooperative as possible to compensate for your lack of time management skills.”

If only. I expected my son to care that we were late, which was totally irrational because he doesn’t actually comprehend the meaning of the word “late.” I know this, because I’ve asked him.

It was, of course, a shitshow. I struggled to control my frustration. The more I tried to impose my will and wrestle him into his clothes, the more he resisted.

Finally, he was dressed and we left the house.

In the car, I talked to him about what had just transpired. I was on a roll, being all kinds of parental. Laying down the law. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.” And so on. He started to say something. I cut him off.

“I am talking. You can talk when I’m finished.”

When I was done talking, I said “Okay, what did you have to say about not getting dressed?”

I was feeling a little smug and magnanimous. Such a progressive parent I am, giving the child an opportunity to express himself. This is, after all a benevolent dictatorship.

“Well, Mommy, what I had to say is…you didn’t say ‘please.’”

“What?”

“You didn’t say ‘please.’”

Dammit. I went over the scene in my head. He was right. Not once did I say “please.” We were late – my own fault – and I started issuing orders.

There is merit to the argument that he’s the child and I’m the parent and he should do what I say, when I say, period. But he’s also a person. And I’m a person. I don’t want someone to abruptly insist I stop doing the fun thing I’m doing, immediately switch gears, and do a not fun thing, just because they can’t tell time. If I want to raise him to be a considerate person, isn’t it incumbent upon me to treat him with consideration?

I said, “You’re right. I didn’t say ‘please.’ If I had said ‘please,’ would you have gotten dressed?”

His response was clear and firm: “Yes.”

I said okay and let it go. I was skeptical, but it was time to move on.

The next day, I had an opportunity to test the hypothesis. I said ‘please.’ He looked at me with an obvious flash of recognition, and quickly complied with my request. It was clear he knew I’d heard him.

I know saying “please” won’t always work. I seriously doubt it will even work most of the time. Still, it seems to me that, as a general life rule, “please” is a good place to start.

Sometimes, we get so caught up in the intensity or stress of a moment that we forget the basics.

Ask instead of tell.

Listen.

Say “please.”