By: Sarah Thompson
As I stand in the kitchen, my face flushed with frustration, I find myself yelling into the void. “I need help!” I shout, my hands awkwardly encased in oven mitts as I wave them in exasperation. “Dinner is ready! And someone is knocking at the door!” Yet, despite my pleas, no one seems to respond. With six kids in the house, it’s astonishing that not one can tear themselves away from their video games, homework, or TV.
I march to the front door, flinging it open, only to see the UPS delivery driver retreating to his truck. “Yeah, you better go!” I contemplate yelling at him, a futile attempt to channel my pent-up anger. “Take your clipboard and your brown truck before I…” But my thoughts trail off, lacking a constructive conclusion. I gather my packages with my oven-mitted hands and retreat back inside.
“Dinner!” My face is now flushed with anger as the pot on the stove threatens to boil over and the table remains unset. I start calling out names, even throwing in some of the neighbor kids for good measure. “Everyone, to the kitchen now!” I hear footsteps approaching from the basement and upstairs, but only one child, groggy and oblivious, emerges from the next room.
It’s been a long day of laundry, errands, and grocery shopping. After spending an hour fixing the garbage disposal—thanks to a plastic spoon being misused—my frustration peaks. “I can’t believe how selfish you are!” I shout, throwing down my oven mitts to emphasize my point. “Make your own dinner!” I stomp away from the kitchen and head upstairs.
Three minutes later, I return to an unexpectedly set table and six pairs of eyes looking back at me. Silently, I finish preparing the meal and serve their plates. “I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I was frustrated and needed your help. I shouldn’t have yelled.” They nod, accepting my apology, perhaps because they’ve heard it before. I’ve made mistakes—some of them repeatedly—so they are accustomed to my remorse. They respond with a light-hearted acknowledgment, and after any necessary consequences, we move forward. This is how we handle apologies in our home, from toy squabbles to dinner debacles.
“We should have come to help sooner,” my son remarks, glancing at his siblings, who nod in agreement. It’s not a jubilant response, but it’s a start.
In our family, we’re all navigating the art of apologizing. My mother instilled in me the importance of saying “I’m sorry that…” instead of “I’m sorry if…”. The first implies uncertainty about the wrongdoing; the second takes ownership of it.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” vs. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
“I’m sorry if I didn’t listen.” vs. “I’m sorry that I didn’t listen.”
True power lies in a heartfelt apology, but the real gift comes from delivering it sincerely.
Just last week, a friend reached out to ask if he should apologize to his son for a significant mistake from the past. His intended apology was profound, covering years of hurt. “What do you think?” he asked. I told him it was perfect. “But don’t forget to include ‘I’m sorry’,” I reminded him. Sometimes, it’s really that straightforward. At the core, what children want to hear is a genuine “I love you, and I respect you enough to admit that I make mistakes too.”
As parents, we occasionally fall short. We have our off days. But if we’re fortunate, we learn from these experiences and admit our mistakes, moving forward with a little more strength. It’s essential for our children to see that we, as their parents, are human too. They will discover this truth eventually, and I believe they will love us despite—or perhaps because of—our imperfections. Through our apologies, they witness our efforts and our longing to do right by them.
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In summary, acknowledging our mistakes and apologizing to our children cultivates a deeper understanding and connection within the family. It demonstrates to them that we are all learning and growing together.