I find myself in the kitchen, flushed and shouting, but it seems like no one is paying attention. “I need help!” I yell, waving my hands, still clad in oven mitts. “Dinner is ready! And someone is at the front door!” Yet, no one comes. With six kids in the house, it’s astonishing that no one can pause their video games, homework, or shows to see what the frantic 37-year-old in the kitchen needs. Frustrated, I storm to the front door, flinging it open, only to see the delivery guy retreating to his truck.
“Yeah, you better get out of here!” I think about shouting, wanting to take out my frustration on him. But that feels pointless, so I grab my packages and head back inside.
“Dinner!” I call out, my face still flushed as the pot on the stove threatens to boil over, and the table is still not set. I start calling out the names of my kids, even throwing in a few of the neighbor kids for good measure. “Everyone, to the kitchen now!” I hear footsteps from both the basement and the upper floor, but the one child who was closest still doesn’t budge, emerging from the next room with a dazed expression.
It has been an exhausting, thankless day filled with laundry, errands, and even fixing the garbage disposal after someone attempted to send a plastic spoon down the drain. No one seems to acknowledge my visible frustration, and at that moment, like the pot that has boiled over, I am fed up with irritation.
“I can’t believe how selfish you all are!” I yell, tossing down my oven mitts for emphasis. “Make your own dinner!” I stomp upstairs, needing a moment to cool off.
Three minutes later, I return to find the table set and six faces watching me. I finish preparing dinner and serve the food, feeling the weight of my earlier outburst. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking at them. “I was frustrated and needed your help. But I shouldn’t have yelled.” They nod, having heard this before. I’ve made mistakes, sometimes the same ones, often enough that they recognize the routine. They accept my apology with a casual grace, and after the necessary consequences are addressed, we move forward.
“We should have come to help sooner,” my daughter says, glancing at her siblings. They respond with a mix of nods and shrugs, acknowledging the situation. It’s not a raucous reconciliation, but it’s something.
In our home, we’re all learning the art of apologizing. My mother taught me the importance of saying “I’m sorry that…” rather than “I’m sorry if…” The former acknowledges the wrongdoing and takes responsibility, while the latter can imply doubt about the hurt caused.
“I’m sorry if I let you down.” vs. “I’m sorry that I let you down.”
An apology carries power, but giving one sincerely is a gift. Just last week, a friend confided in me about whether he should apologize to his son for a more serious matter. It was the kind of apology that reflects years of mistakes, one that requires deep reflection. “Here’s what I plan to tell him,” he shared, and his words, laden with emotion, perfectly captured the hurt he felt he had caused.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him, because it truly was. “But don’t forget to say ‘I’m sorry’ too,” I reminded him, as sometimes that simple phrase holds the most weight.
At the core, that’s what our kids need to hear—“I love you, and I respect you enough to admit that I make mistakes too.”
We, as parents, don’t always get it right. We stumble, we forget, and it’s tough. If we’re fortunate, we’ll learn, apologize, and grow stronger.
Letting our children see that we are human—flawed yet striving—can only benefit our relationships. Ultimately, they will learn to love us not just in spite of our failures, but also because of our willingness to show them we are all works in progress.
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In summary, apologizing to our children is a powerful tool in fostering understanding and growth. It teaches them that mistakes happen, and that acknowledging them is part of being human. By showing our vulnerability, we strengthen the bonds of love and respect within our families.