One winter morning, running those couple minutes late that I never seem to be able to reclaim these days, I decided to try the shortcut between our house and my son’s school…
...a dirt road that wasn’t meant for anything other than construction vehicles.
From our end of the road, I couldn’t see the street that it ended on. That should have been a red flag to me.
But I was running late, which means by (the old) definition, I was decidedly UN-present and UN-serene. And I don’t tend to make the best decisions when in that state.
I plunged ahead in our 4wheel-drive, figuring I could make it over the 4 inches of snow on the road, no problem.
One problem – I’d forgotten about the snow plow bank sure to be on the other side. Half way down the short hill, I saw the four foot wall of snow and knew I was blocked. Throwing it in reverse, my tires spun helplessly against the hill.
Never one to give up (there’s ALWAYS a way out, right?), I am embarrassed to admit I tried plowing through the snow bank. Yes, a four foot snow bank. Yes, with my son in the car. Yes, perhaps even letting a few new-to-the-three-year-old words slip out of my mouth. (I hope I whispered them.)
The car came to a halt next to the bumper imprint in the snow bank.
In an excited voice tinged with anxiousness, my son asked, “Momma, are we stuck?”
When I look back on this moment, I’m amazed that I did not admit defeat at this point because that was indeed exactly what we were...stuck.
But no, the absurdity of my choices and the scene were not within my conscious grasp; my problem-solving brain was in high gear. Sanity and presence had completely flown the coop. (I imagine them enjoying the scene from far above us).
To my credit, I did at least accept the fact that we were stuck. But in this case acceptance did not lead to sanity’s speedy return. Like I said, sanity and presence had evaporated, leaving in their wake frantic problem-solving resolve.
Determined to get my son to school (preschool, mind you) on time, I decided we’d abandon the car and walk from there. Yes, the full mile. Yes, with a three year old. Yes, in the 0 degree wind chill.
I carried him most of the way. He and I were both freezing when we got to the school. At least, I said to myself, he is warm and safe now. (Hadn’t we BOTH been warm and safe in our car 20 minutes before that?)
I hiked back to the car and waited with the heat on for the tow truck. Waiting in the quiet car, just breathing and thawing out, sanity and presence floated back down onto my shoulders. I laughed out loud at ridiculous of the situation and at myself for the choice I’d made to take the shortcut in the first place – two minutes of time saved actually cost me an hour.
But it wasn’t until I picked my son up from school that afternoon that the real lesson hit.
Before he was even out of his classroom door that afternoon, he let loose with a barrage of questions: “Momma, did a tow truck come? What did it look like? How did it get the car out? Did you stay in the car while it pulled you? Was it noisy?”
His eager questions revealed the three-year-old’s opportunity perspective, rather than my adult “we’re late!” perspective.
I noticed immediately a sharp twinge of sadness in me as I responded to his questions.
The real missed opportunity that morning was not the hour lost, but the hour I did not spend adventuring with my son.
“Coulda Shoulda Woulda” jumped on my back. I realized that the moment we got stuck, I had a choice: I could have taken a deep breath, gathered the shredded remains of sanity and presence back into my heart, looked in the rearview mirror at my son and said, “Yes, honey, Momma made a bad choice and now we’re stuck. But guess what?? We’re completely safe and can stay warm in the car. We get to call a tow truck to pull us out. We’ll read books together until it gets here and then we can watch a tow truck up close! After it pulls us out, I’ll take you to school. What a great story you’ll have to tell your friends!”
And you know what? I could beat myself up about this experience. “Coulda Shoulda Woulda” can be a very sharp tool for parenting guilt. I wish I’d done…I should have…If I could do it again, I’d…
I must admit that every time Jack and I see a tow truck, he brings up the experience and that twinge returns. “Remember the time when you got stuck in that snow bank, Momma? The tow truck pulled you out, right?” Oh, how I wish he could say, “And remember how that tow truck pulled us out? That was so cool!”
But I have another choice here, one that helps me stay sane and present in parenting. Rather than wallow in guilt, I have learned to try to use retrospect as proactive tool, instead.
Retrospect is not for beating ourselves up. Retrospect is for the next time.
The next time I feel that crazy cascade ridiculous decisions falling over or inside me, I hope I WILL take that breath, find the shreds of sanity and presence, and salvage the experience with whatever adventure presents itself as a result.