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The shirt was ruined. My son had washed a newly acquired red shirt with one of my favorite blouses. I began to fume. “Why couldn’t he have only ruined his own clothes? Why did it have to be one of the few blouses I owned that actually made me look good when I put it on?” Sense and reason began to depart my brain. Then, out of the blue, two paths began to materialize in my mind. Down one path was demoralization for my nine year old son. A departure from the loving and nurturing home I was trying to create for him. I saw myself standing on that path berating and belittling him for a childish mistake. I saw the hurt and confusion in his eyes. The downcast eyes and tears dripping one by one as he absorbed the barrage was heart rending and awful. In my mind I turned my attention to the other path where I also stood with my son. A conversation was taking place. “Did you know”, I asked my son, “that a red shirt can sometimes make other things red in the laundry?” His eyes widened as he saw the now pink shirt. He looks at me for reassurance, a small spark of fear in his eyes. I tell him how proud I am that he is taking more responsibility for his laundry. That I know he was only trying to help when he washed my shirt. He nods his head in relief. “I promise mom, I won’t wash the reds anymore!”
The choice was mine I realized. I could go down either path. I could choose to build up my son or to destroy him over a shirt, a piece of fabric and thread. I would choose my child over my shirt anyday.
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