Overkill and Overboard
I swore I’d never do it again, yet there I was, standing over the toilet looking down at a perfectly healthy fish swimming in happy little circles, unaware he was about to take the ride of his life. I thought my fish-killing days were over, (you can read more about that, and the rest of my life regrets here), but the slope from one-time offender to serial killer is quite slippery. But before you call PETA, let me explain.
The death of my son’s fish was just the final incident in a series of poor choices he’d made that day. Earlier he had lied to me about a trivial little thing, resulting in five minutes in time out. Later, he’d come downstairs with his hair doused in what surely was at least half a cup of hair gel. He stood there, hair slicked and compressed on his scalp so flat as if they were one. I feigned stupidity and asked, “What happened to your hair?” Justice then regaled us with a reenactment of what seemed to be a conversation with his shoulder angel and shoulder devil: “I opened my drawer and I saw my tub of hair gel and I REALLY wanted to open it. But then I thought, ‘NO. Mom will get really mad and I know I’m not supposed to play with that.’ But then my brain told me how fun it would be if I opened the hair gel. But then my heart told me I’d get consequences…” and this went on and on. I had to stifle my laughter as I envisioned the scene from Emperor’s New Groove, in which Kronk is caught between the angel on his left shoulder and the devil on his right. As the two argue, the devil points across to the angel and quips, “He’s gonna lead you down the path of righteousness. I’m gonna lead you down the path that ROCKS.” I finally interrupted Justice and said, “Just TELL ME what you did.” He nodded solemnly and pointed to his head as if I couldn’t smell the fumes of hair product from a mile away. Then he grabbed my hand and escorted me upstairs. After we rinsed the hair gel from his head, he pointed to the other offense he’d failed to tell me about… the fish tank.
As parents we sometimes find ourselves in impossible situations; forced to choose between teaching our children a valuable life lesson and appealing to our ethics. On this day, I found myself in such a predicament. Each of my children has a pet Beta fish in their room. My daughter, the oldest, is responsible for feeding her fish each day. Justice, my youngest, has been told no less than a thousand times that he must have an adult present when feeding his fish. Any parent can guess why we have this rule. Young boys are often the very definition of “overkill.” My son in particular has never done a single thing in moderation. He’s overfed his fish multiple times, and I have warned him repeatedly that overfeeding could result in death (the fish’s or his, if he kept pushing it). Plus, I was done with cleaning the tank and vacuuming up food pellets after every occurrence. Maybe he caught me on a bad day. Maybe he’d just reached his quota for poor choices. But whatever the reason, when Justice showed me his fish tank overloaded with an entire container of fish food, something inside me snapped.
My son needed to experience consequences for neglecting to heed my warnings. Cleaning up his mess and relocating his fish tank to another room for a few days clearly wasn’t sending a strong enough message. My disposition chilled, and I said in a cold, flat voice, “I’ve warned you many times and you didn’t listen. Overfeeding your fish can kill him. And that’s what happened. He’s dead.” While Justice ran down the hall, wailing, I picked up the tank and walked steadily to the bathroom. I hated to do it, but I knew it was the only way to help Justice finally understand that his choices can have real consequences. I scooped out his fish (who was still very much alive, if you haven’t guessed already) and dropped him into the toilet. I’ll admit, I had to close my eyes as I flushed. I don’t think I could’ve lived with the image in my head otherwise. Next, I dumped the tank and all its contents into the trash. As I did so, the irony of it hit me. I lied to my son to teach him a lesson in trustworthiness. (I’m eagerly awaiting my parenting award.) I washed my hands, took a few deep breaths, and went to console my son. When I came downstairs I found Justice snuggled up to his big sister. His head was buried in her lap, sobbing, while she gently rubbed his back and whispered consoling words in his ear. Later she drew him a beautiful picture of his Beta fish with a paragraph of sympathetic prose. She knew just what he needed at that moment. (Sometimes I think she’s gunning for my job. I bet SHE wouldn’t have flushed his fish.)
Later, when the tears and hysteria subsided, Justice and I sat together to discuss what had happened. I started by expressing my sympathy over the loss of his fish, while still reminding him that it was his choices that led to the fish’s death. (I should win an Oscar for my performance). He asked if we could get him a new fish, and I gently explained that he needed to earn our trust back before we would even consider replacing it. We talked about the decisions he’d made that day; how his choices had broken trust with us. At the age of nearly six, we shouldn’t have to question if he’s doing something destructive when left alone in his room for thirty minutes. His eyes filled with tearful remorse as he said, “So you won’t believe me anymore?” I assured him he was a good kid; a good kid that yielded to temptation and chose the wrong way. I want to take him at his word. I want to trust him to be responsible. Even more than that, I want him to be a kid that admits he screwed up and asks for help to make it right. We talked about how to face temptation when it comes our way. When we’re faced with a choice between right from wrong, we should stop, think, and ask God for help. I hugged Justice tight. I prayed over him. We moved on with our day in gratitude for the gift of forgiveness and the fresh start it brings.
The way Justice articulated his moral dilemma over the hair gel, comical as it was, was so blatantly accurate. How many times have we found ourselves facing the same plight? It’s a story as old as Adam and Eve. We know what we should do. We know what God tells us. Yet, the sinful choice is far more alluring. We go back and forth in our heads, battling our human desires with our heavenly calling. No matter how old we are, the battle to do what’s right is ever-present. We won’t win every time. We will relapse, even after we feel we’ve overcome the temptation for good. Justice has been making strides toward becoming more trustworthy since the “incident.” Has he lied to us since? Yes. Has he still been destructive when left unattended? Yes. But has he given himself over to his sin? No. He’s trying. And when he fails, he tries again. I do the same. I’ve learned my sin is paid for in full, but I still face discipline. My sin has consequences. That’s what I want my son to learn. I’ve learned my repeated failures are opportunities to experience God’s unrelenting grace; a grace that spurs me to lean all the more on Him when temptation comes my way. I can’t face it alone and expect to overcome it. That’s what I want my son to learn.
Kristen Welch, the author of Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World, articulates my heart so well. She says, “I don’t know how my kids are going to turn out. I don’t know if one of them will make really bad choices and lead a life I wouldn’t choose for him or her. I can’t predict what will happen. I know that I am teaching them the truth according to God’s Word and loving them the best way I can by thoughtfully guiding and encouraging them, but I also have to let them make their own decisions and pray they find Jesus in their successes or failures.”
Some of you are nodding your heads in affirmation of my parenting. Some of you are anticipating my story being played out on an episode of 20/20 thirty years from now as the “first sign of trouble,” while I await my prison sentence for an inexplicable crime. Was it wrong to let my five-year-old believe he’d killed his fish, when in fact, I murdered it in cold blood? Maybe. I could’ve gone overboard, I admit. But whenever he looks at the empty space on his dresser, Justice says sadly, “I really miss my fish.” I know he understands the lesson I had to kill for to teach him.