I’m the youngest of five children. If you’re wondering if I was babied, the answer is heck yes. After all, I had up to six grown people looking after or at me at any given time.

Everyone knows the youngest child is indulged, pampered, and spoiled in ways that others are not.  I once read that by experiencing so much attention from others, youngest children usually grow up expecting good things from life and therefore tend to be optimists rather than negative-thinking people. That is so me!

That’s how I turned out, at least. The world wasn’t any kinder to me as a kid than it is to anyone. I had some tough early years, and I wasn’t much of an optimist in my youth.

Confession time. This may gross you out, but it’s part of my story, so I need to share it. As a child I had a condition called enuresis. I was a bed-wetter. Actually I was a pants, shorts, bed, sleeping bag, whatever wetter. And I didn’t think it was a coincidence that enuresis was pronounced a lot like you’re-a-sissy, because that’s what I felt like. It was horrible. I could be anywhere at any time and all of the sudden realize that whatever I was wearing just turned into a swimsuit.

Those were shameful, embarrassing years. I kept to myself and stayed very quiet in school classrooms to avoid any attention for fear my classmates would notice. Some kids really were cruel.

Lucky for me, I had a best friend. Someone I could trust. Someone who knew the real person inside me. Her name was Darlene, but I just called her Mom. She was my angel on earth—the one who always loved me no matter how often my accidents would happen. Just being around her, I became special.

She did with me what she did with all the other kids. She developed and perfected three lines of code that, although not scientifically proven, I know for a fact were keys to helping me through some very difficult times.  They probably even healed me. It’s pretty complicated, so you might want to write them down. Here they are:

I’m sorry.

Bless your heart.

I love you.

Oh, my mom might have seemed like your average 70s polyester-pants-wearing mother, but I think she secretly has a Ph.D in parenting.

Mom would take me into her arms and say, “I’m sorry.” This was always her first reaction when any of her kids felt sad. The word sorry comes from sore, meaning to suffer.  I knew she could literally feel my pain.

Then she followed it up with, “Bless your heart.” A heart, the very organ that sustains life, the spot where we feel our emotions, really does need to be blessed when wounded or broken.

Finally, after I had been heard and healed, I was reassured that I was loved. She would look me in the eyes and tell me.

They say it’s impossible to be a perfect mother, but there’s a million ways to be a good one.  To mine, I wish a blessed heart for all the good she continues to do. I wish her love from me. And I’m sorry about all the extra laundry.

And to all moms, I hope you know that your own unique code language is noticed. All those reassurances you give so automatically really do replace heartache with belonging. You are creating confidence.

Bless all your hearts.

Bryan

Years ago on a Saturday morning I was sitting in front of the television, working my remote control while my six-year-old son was in the kitchen working on his oatmeal (which he called “eatmeal”).  After a couple of minutes I caught him out of the corner of my eye hopping down from his seat and headed over to some cars on the floor.

Based on my years of experience as a parent, I knew he couldn’t have finished his breakfast that fast, even if he had used one of our big spoons.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, “make sure you eat all your oatmeal.”

There was no response.  He just kept on with his two-handed, two-car drag race.

I took a moment to decide on a channel, then spoke again with clearer direction: “Make sure you eat all your oatmeal before you play with those cars, buddy.”

Still nothing from him but revving engine sounds.

Well, that was it. I had asked two times, and he was clearly ignoring me. Time to demand some respect. From my cockpit seat, remote in hand like a king’s staff, I hollered, “Did you hear what I said, son? Finish your oatmeal!”

He looked up at me as if he had never heard a single word and replied, “I don’t want any more eatmeal. Did you hear what I said?”

Are you serious? I thought. Did I just? You little. Did I just hear what I thought I heard?

I stood up and pointed to the stairs and said, “Head up to your room right now, son!”

He looked up at me, stood up, put his head down and went upstairs without another word. As he got close to the top step I added, “I want you to think about what you just said.” He turned the corner and vanished down the hallway.

What the heck just happened? I swore I’d taught him better than that.

I sat on my throne for a few more minutes, stewing over how kids these days watch too much TV, learning sarcasm and lack of respect for their parents. Eventually the thought of him being up there alone, wondering where he and I stood, got to me. I love him. He was only a little boy. I still had plenty of time to reprogram what some Disney show might have taught him.

I headed up the stairs. Slowly, I opened his door and found him sitting on the edge of his bed.  I walked in and sat next him. His cheeks were still wet. He was staring down at his little hands.

My heart ached. I wanted to do this the right way, from ground zero. So I started with a simple question.

“Son, who taught you to talk like that to me?” Without hesitation he looked up at me and said with a soft voice, “You, Dad.”

My mind raced, searching for clues. Suddenly my own words echoed back at me: “Did you hear what I said?”

He was right. He was simply being a mirror of me.

I got down on my knees and hugged him while I tried to release the awful pain in my gut. I asked for his forgiveness and promised I would try to speak more kindly to him in the future. I also apologized for unfairly sending him to his room.

More than a decade has since gone by, but I’ve thought about that lesson more than a hundred times. I wish I could say I’ve been a perfect father ever since. I haven’t. Not even close. But since then I have stopped myself many times and asked, “Do you hear what you’re about to say?”

It’s a clue, a gift really, from a little boy sitting on the edge of his bed. I hope somehow, someday it comes in handy for you.

LLC

Bryan

When you’re not seeing eye to eye with someone, or if you see someone handle a situation in a way that you never would think to handle it, you might find yourself wondering, What is their problem? If you’re sincerely asking yourself that question, you are on the right track.

(more…)