Stubborn As A Mule

When I was about seven years old my mom took me to the mall to get my ears pierced. I’d been begging for months and I was excited. We stepped into the cluttered little accessory shop and I stood in awe at all my choices of earrings. I couldn’t wait to pick pairs in every color and change them out with every outfit and for every holiday. I hopped up into the elevated chair and sat patiently while the clerk marked my earlobes with a purple dot on each side. She loaded the piercing tool (which looks far too much like a gun if you ask me) and placed it against my right ear. She counted to three and pressed the trigger. Stabbing pain pulsed through my delicate little earlobe. I started to cry, stunned at the torture device I’d so naively trusted to make me beautiful. The clerk stepped to my left side and was about to do it again. She couldn’t fool me twice. I screamed, shaking my head furiously. My mother likely mortified at the scene I was making, tried to talk me off my ledge of psychotic behavior. She gently explained that I needed to sit still just one more time so the clerk could pierce my other ear. I refused. My mom worked hard to convince me, assuring me it would be worth it if I’d only be brave for a few more seconds. The clerk teamed up with my mom, arguing the earring she’d already put in would have to stay in for a few days before I could take it out, so if I didn’t get my other ear pierced I’d have no choice but to walk around with one earring. I admit it sounded embarrassing, but I’d held my ground long enough by then I wasn’t about to back down and let them win. These women were sadists and I refused to be their victim a second time. My mom finally conceded and marched me out of the shop. As she led me back through the mall toward the parking lot, I became very aware of how ridiculous I looked; a diamond stud in one ear and a permanent purple dot on the other. Self-conscious, I idiotically tipped my head to the left, pinning my dotted earlobe to my shoulder, and walked all the way to the car like that, (my mother rolling her eyes at me the whole way). I took my earring out as soon as it was safe to do so. It was another five years before I mustered up the courage and humility to get my ears pierced completely.

To say I was a strong-willed child is an understatement. My childhood is littered with examples that could easily be used as case studies in every parenting book. For maybe the first eight years of my life I lived on a steady diet of hot dogs, mac and cheese, and peanut butter jelly sandwiches. I refused to eat anything else. My dad made tireless attempts to introduce me to new foods at the dinner table every night. (Many of them looked delicious by the way, but I couldn’t have my dad thinking he was right.) I declined to try anything other than my list of items I already knew I liked. I went years thinking I hated raspberries and Chinese food. I ordered a plain cheese quesadilla at every Mexican restaurant, blinding myself to all other menu options. Instead of swallowing new food, I’d chew each bite until my jaw ached, excuse myself to the bathroom, and spit my food out on a piece of toilet paper. (I had my Opa convinced there was a developmental issue with my jaw. He expressed his concern to my mom, to which she rolled her eyes and assured him I was fine.) Most nights I was the last one at the table, engaging in a battle of wills with my parents. My pride kept me company in the kitchen after hours.

I remember one day my fifth-grade teacher handed me a note for my parents on my way out of the classroom. It was in a sealed envelope. She didn’t say what it was about, just asked that I give it to them as soon as I got home. I worried and fretted the entire two blocks of my walk home. I held the envelope up to the sunlight, trying to decipher the lettering inside. I couldn’t make it out. What could Ms. Greenbaum possibly have to tell my parents? I had to know. I carefully opened the envelope. Unhappy with my parents knowing about her “concerns” for me, I took a magic marker from my backpack and blacked out all incriminating words. I handed the note to my mom when I got home and raced up to my room before she could open it. Not long after, I heard a knock at my door. My dad had returned home from work. He’d seen the letter. He asked me why I thought Ms. Greenbaum would mark out parts of her note, (with a green magic marker no less). I shrugged, “Beats me. Maybe she changed her mind about some of the things she wanted to say.” I looked at the letter my dad set on my nightstand. It was amateur work. I knew it and he knew it. But my pride wouldn’t let me admit my wrongdoing. No, I would hold my ground. My dad sat by my bed and said, “I’ll wait right here until you decide to tell me the truth.” He was in for a long night.

I did not make things easy for my parents. God bless them; they did their very best with me, but my stubborn-as-a-mule attitude was often no match for them. I was usually the last one standing whenever we went toe to toe. While I don’t revel in my shortcomings from my childhood, I know this: I am a better parent because of it. I am now raising two young children who are strong-willed in their own right, and I have the opportunity to do for them what needed to be done for me. I went well into my adulthood without knowing how to humbly admit wrongdoing, without knowing how to yield to others or release my need to be right. I want something far different for my kids. Unfortunately for them, I know all the tricks in the book and I’ve had 38 years to hone my strong will.

The power struggle with my son is daily. He wants to have the final word in every conversation. He’ll argue with me about the most trivial things just for sport. Yesterday he flat out told me, “You’re wrong Mom. You don’t know more than me.” (Thank you Jesus for blessing me with self-control at that moment.) When he was a toddler, flexing his ego and testing every boundary in the book, I often said to him, “You will NOT win this. You are NOT in charge.” His little eyes would shoot daggers in my direction. One night we’d taken so many things away from him that he was left with literally nothing in his room except his bed and dresser. I’ve never issued a threat I wasn’t willing to carry out, and I’ve carried out every single threat. I don’t leave any room for my kids to question my sincerity. But I’m also willing to own my behavior. I’ve often sought forgiveness from my children. Sometimes I lose my cool, I overreact, or I take out my bad day on their innocent little hearts. Sometimes I’m just wrong. If I want my children to yield to my authority, I need to yield to them sometimes. It’s okay to let my kids be right from time to time. Perhaps if I let them be right, they’ll be more willing to be wrong.

I insist my kids apologize to the people they’ve wronged. Usually, the offense is minor and the person they’ve wronged doesn’t even feel an apology is necessary. I still make them do it though. Why? Because looking someone in the eyes, apologizing for specific wrongs, and seeking forgiveness, is a life skill of utmost value. And because it does a heart good to reconcile, to set things right. Leaving a relationship broken, a wrong not made right puts us on the fast track to pride and bitterness. As a child, I struggled with holding grudges. Perhaps it was because I so rarely sought forgiveness myself. I want my children to choose to sit in grace rather than in their pride.

Confessing a sin isn’t easy for anyone. Lord knows it isn’t for me. Both my children struggle with confession, but for different reasons. My son simply doesn’t want to take the consequence. My daughter doesn’t want to admit to imperfection. When she falls short her world falls apart. I tell her what I needed to hear at her age, that nothing she admits will make me love her less. I never expect perfection from her, I only expect her best. I tell her God’s love is never changing, it is faithful and steady, no matter our flaws. Any time I express anger, frustration, or disappointment in my daughter, she tearfully admits, “I just wish I could be perfect all the time and you’d never get mad at me.” Yes, failing others is a discouraging feeling. But with failure comes the opportunity to learn, grow, and experience absolution. Perfection, though highly sought after, is impossible to attain. If we could be perfect, we’d not need a Savior, and oh what an empty life we would have.

Both my kids have a stubborn streak. My son will seek my help on his homework but then blatantly ignore anything I tell him. My daughter has ignored any suggestions I’ve ever given her in the last 9 years simply because she didn’t think of it first. (Insert eye rolls here.) I’m sorry to say I did the same thing to my mother. The woman had wonderful ideas but I tried not one, simply on principle. (You were a saint, Mom.) I’ve learned to act like whether my kids take my advice or not, makes no difference to me whatsoever. The more I act like it, the more I believe it. After all, why should it matter to me? Would they accomplish things more quickly and efficiently? Of course. Will they fail less? Yep. But will they ever admit I was right about it? Never. So, I yield. I make my suggestions but then I step away and let my children learn it their way. Miraculous things have happened as a result. My son will discreetly correct mistakes I pointed out while I’m not looking. My daughter quietly decorates her history project board in the way I proposed while my back is turned. I get the satisfaction of knowing they value my input, even if they’ll never say it. It’s humbling for each of us.

Last month when my parents were visiting from out of state, we caught my son in a lie. He lied first to my dad, then he lied to me. After working it out with me, I then had him apologize to my dad. We went through the whole song and dance, the tears, the hiding, etc. Finally, my sweet five-year-old boy looked his Papa in the eyes and asked for forgiveness. When it was all over and my son had moved on, my dad looked at me and admitted, “I don’t think we handled that very well with you when you were young.” I nodded and said, “Maybe not, but you and mom did the best you knew how at the time. That’s all any of us can do.” Thinking about that moment now, I realize how much my dad’s admission meant to me. It showed me that even decades later, we can own up to our flaws, we can make it right, and we can keep doing better. My parents weren’t perfect, but the challenges they faced with me and my brother have made them better grandparents. I will match wills with my grandkids someday. I’ll share stories with them of when their parents tested my limits as a mother. I’ll still be apologizing to my kids when they’re in their 30’s, I’m sure of it. I look forward to it.