At times, we’re all caught between what we can do and what we should do. All too often, it’s hard to tell the difference.

It is an instinctive thing, wanting to help those who need it.  Whether it is our spouse, our child, a friend, or some stranger we encounter who needs a lift.

It’s especially hard when it’s our child.  We want better for them than we had.  We want to smooth their path in life because we know tough times are ahead for them—they are ahead for everyone; it’s part of life.

We want to be good parents, a positive influence, and we want our kids to rely on us when they need help.  But we don’t want to cripple them into thinking they aren’t capable of helping themselves or that they can’t resolve their own troubles.  In other words, to make them so reliant on us to resolve difficulties that they fear even attempting to solve them on their own.  We don’t want to raise them to be afraid to make a decision.

Many years ago, my parents offered advice that I think was helpful in this regard. 

Give your kids responsibility on a level you believe they can handle.  Tell them to expect to make mistakes, and when they do, correct the error as soon as possible, apologize to any harmed by it and try to make it right, forgive themselves, and learn from the experience.

I had no trouble with any of that right up and until I hit “forgive yourself and learn from the experience.”

When I erred, I easily admitted it and tried to make it right, including apologies.  But forgiving myself… that was a challenge.  I thought I should be wiser, smarter, more attuned and surefooted.  I should have thought of the potential outcomes for others and myself.

Fortunately, my parents were there to offer reassurance.  You’ve not been in this situation before, how could you know the outcome.  My response was always the same:  “I could have thought about it.”  

That was true.  I might have been wrong, but at least I would have been able to tell myself that I thought about it.  How my decision would impact another.  How it would impact me.  That would have eased the road to forgiveness.  After all, at times we’re all wrong.  At times, we all make mistakes.  So I added,  think about how my decision could potentially impact others, to my consider list.

When these situations occurred, my folks inevitably asked, “What did you learn from this?”

Generally, I knew all too well how to answer that, though sometimes I recall wishing I had no idea.  Depending on my answer, they’d encourage ways to do better next time.  

They were great teachers, really.  And that encouragement always included steering me to things I could have done that would have created a better outcome.

I had no idea then how valuable these little events were.  My parents were filling my toolbox with constructive solutions.  They were honing my judgment, and my confidence in my judgment.

Before too long, I found myself going to them with events before I took action, seeking their advice and suggestions.  There I acquired more tools and my judgment got more honing, and I got more confident in it.

The older I got the more I cherished these memories, and the more aware I became that they’d been training me all my life.

Once, I asked my mother why they had pushed personal responsibility on me so hard at such a young age.  Her response humbled me.

“We wanted to be here when you scraped your knees, and to help you avoid scraping your nose.”

It isn’t hard to visualize that.  Without their training, the mistakes I’ve made would have been far worse.  But thanks to them and their determination to give their child all they could to prepare her for the life ahead, they weren’t.

The gifts in that—in doing what they should versus what they could—set a sturdy foundation for which I am eternally grateful.

When it came to raising my own children, I tried to carry on their tradition.  I’m sure I didn’t do so with the skill they did, but I know I did it with love.

I’ve often heard “because I can.”  But I’ve gained a whole new respect for “because I should.”

Blessings,

Vicki

PS.  I should add, they gave me a license to fail also.  My dad used to say, “If you’re not failing, you’re not trying hard enough.  You’re just taking up space.”  

For what it’s worth, I’ve failed a lot.  But I have also enjoyed many successes I likely would never have attempted without that license to fail.