One of my most vivid childhood memories involves a mistake I made with my younger sister, Beverly. We lived in the midwest and had agreed one snowy winter to substitute as newspaper carriers for a friend who was leaving town for a week. Her parents graciously provided us with the key to their home so we could fold the papers inside out of the snow and cold.
One of the first afternoons of our work, we were in their living room folding papers and decided that we should see if they had any food because we were hungry. In our poor judgment, we looked in their refrigerator and cabinets and put together a nourishing meal of marishino cherries and pop tarts. We knew what we were doing was wrong. In fact, we even went to the trouble to make sure everything was back where it started so that we would not raise suspicions. A week later, Beverly told my older sister about the incident. In her "concern" for us, she told mom and dad.
My father told Beverly and me that when he came home from work the next day we would go to the store, purchase a jar of cherries and a box of pop tarts with our own money, take them to our friend's home, and tell the parents what we had done. I'll never forget that long day at school trying to figure out how to get out of the trip to our friend's house. I even thought about running away to join the circus.
That night we did, in fact, drive over to our friend's house. I prayed that they would not be home. Not only were they home, they were all in the living room together when we knocked at the door. I was crying so hard when the door opened I could not even talk. I'm sure we must have been quite a sight - two children crying in the snow holding pop tarts and marishino cherries. My sister managed to deliver our collective confession and apology. We handed over our purchase and left.
For years, I thought that was one of the hardest things my father ever made me do. Now, however, I feel quite differently. Instead, I believe that it was probably one of the hardest things my father ever had to make himself make us do. It would have been much easier if he had just spanked us, lectured us, or disciplined the two of us in some other private way. As it was, he went with us to a home where he knew no one and stood behind us as we admitted that we were thieves. I realize now that he was risking his name - his reputation - to do the right thing and to teach us a valuable lesson.
The actions of my children are not independent of us as their parents. We are reflected in the way they behave. I think about my father often as I try to decide what will teach my children the best lesson. Several years ago, while I stood with my own child in front of a store manager as she admitted, "I stole this," I thought of my father and that cold winter evening. Just like my father, it would have been easier for me to ignore the behavior. Often the hardest lesson is not only hard for them, but hard for us as well. The risk of my reputation was well worth it if, like me, her mistake is remembered more for the lesson, rather than with shame of the behavior. Oddly, as I held her up to the manager's window so she could make her confession, I realized I also was proud of her as she faced her mistake. I've come to believe that the thing that defines our character is not our mistakes so much as it is our response to our mistakes.
