It Was An Accident

“Don’t worry, it was an accident.” I’ve been practicing those words over and over again until they’ve become emblazoned on my brain like Will Farrell’s scrawny butt, although I wish I could scrub his butt out of my mind—that was not a pretty sight. The reason I’ve been practicing those words is because I have become harsh. I hadn’t noticed it. It must have been a slow process—like making bread from scratch, and it probably started about the time that I determined that Great Harvest made good bread that I could pick up on the way home from work.


When my children were born, I was a complete marshmallow. Holding their tiny hands, their entire bodies fitting on my lap, I was goo. I’d contort my face painfully just to get them to smile and I happily sacrificed my sleep so that they wouldn’t have to cry any longer. I am no longer that marshmallow. In fact, according to those same children mentioned above, I’ve become an angry, harsh woman. Naturally, I deny this in everyway. I’m not harsh, I’m stressed. I’m on a schedule. There are certain things that I need to accomplish and there is still only 24 hours in any day. I simply don’t have time to wipe up milk spills and dry tears. I do, however, find the time to yell at my kids about their filthy, stinky, where-is-your-floor-because-I-can’t-see-it bedrooms. I only do this because I didn’t get any sleep last night with two extra kids in my bed. I also have the time to criticize their lack of motivation and their willingness to wear the same pants for a week because they are their favorites, although I should praise them for lightening my laundry day. Okay, so maybe I am a bit harsh.

My teenage son told me that I’m highly critical—even when he tries to help me out. My younger son holds his head in shame anytime his Popsicle drips on the kitchen floor or he spills his cup of milk during dinner. My daughter stands directly in front of me as I’m walking so that I’ll trip over her and she can cry in order to get some attention from me. I’m not sure where I turned the corner on this one. I didn’t mean to. I love my family. I’ve never even met a drill sergeant, so I’m not sure how I became one but I’m darn sure that I wouldn’t like living with one any more than my family does.

Which brings me to the reason why I’m practicing, “It was just an accident.” It’s my new mantra. Words I connect with. Words that center me and remind me not to be so harsh.

We are sitting on the boat, eating delicious fresh-grilled hot dogs smothered in ketchup and mustard. The cool breeze is drifting lazily over the calm water and the sun is shining like a champion in the clear sky. I look over as my son pitches his plate, sending his hot dog rolling into his lap, the mustard leaving skid marks all the way down. He hangs his head in shame, tears filling his eyes as he waits for my usual response.

I pick up a stack of napkins, rubbing down everything the hot dog mowed over. “It’s okay, buddy. It was just an accident.”

He looks up at me, confused and relieved. “Thanks, mom.” He leans over and rests his little head in my lap. “You’re the best mom ever.”

Was it really that easy? I’ve been killing myself trying to be the best wife, mother, friend, and employee and apparently failing miserably. Was the answer really so simple? I put it to the test the following day, when I took a few hours off work to get my oldest son ready for Scout Camp. The list was long and I was patient. I didn’t even flush or clench my teeth when we never found his scout shirt. Backpack stuffed and tied, sleeping bag rolled, I drove him down to meet his troop and send him on his way. Handing him his baseball cap I said, “Have a great time.”

He gave me a hug and said, “Thanks, mom. You’re the best mom ever.” It was my turn to tear up. It really was that easy.