I genuinely tried to give her fair warning. I really did. Yet, she stood there, completely unfazed. Time was ticking, and we were running late. She was fully aware of it. So, I repeated my warning. Still, she just stood there.
Frustrated, I decided to count down from 30. She had 30 seconds to get herself ready. It was crunch time. “Shoes and socks, now,” I said. I started counting. “1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… You need to get ready!” I continued counting, but she remained defiantly fixed in place, staring me down. “9… 10… 11… 12… 13… 14… 15…”
Despite my escalating count, she stood her ground, unwavering. This wasn’t the first time we had faced off in our morning battles—her not listening, the endless stare downs. “16… 17… 18… 19… 20. Don’t make me get to 30,” I warned again. She still didn’t budge. So, in a moment of impulsive frustration, I took one of her cherished Lego sets and smashed it. Just as I had threatened.
In an instant, the carefully constructed set, proudly displayed, lay in ruins. She bolted to her room, tears streaming down her face as the Lego pieces scattered across the floor. I didn’t even wait until I hit 30. I had warned her. I thought I was sending a message about the importance of listening, but in reality, I only created a painful memory.
As she silently prepared for school, I scrambled to pick up the Lego pieces that littered the room—under the table, behind the piano. I never managed to find them all. We were already so late that breakfast was no longer an option. Instead, I hastily packed her a bag of fruit and some cereal, and we left in silence.
After dropping her off, I headed to work, but the regret lingered. I had etched a moment in her memory that she would never forget. I called my husband, and we discussed it as I drove. He listened, as always. At one point, he said, “They’re little. We only have them for such a short time,” and he was absolutely right. I had wanted to discipline her, but I ended up causing harm instead.
Later that evening, as darkness fell, I found myself driving home, feeling weighed down by my decision. Instead of heading straight home, I detoured to a nearby toy store. Scanning the shelves, I spotted the same Lego set—the one with the spinning rocket ship rides. I bought it without hesitation.
When I got home, my daughter was already in her pajamas. Upon seeing the Lego set, her face lit up. I knelt down and said, “I didn’t handle things well this morning. I was wrong, and I’m truly sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. She eagerly opened the box and began rebuilding her set, and in that moment, we started to rebuild our connection too.
However, I know that I’ve left a mark on her childhood—like a scratch on the surface of her innocent experiences. This particular scratch was mine to own, and while I can’t erase it, I can strive to do better moving forward.
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