A few weeks ago I confessed at failing miserably in parenting. It was at my son’s art class where I used punishment as a way to get him to attend the class, rather than using a reward to encourage him to go. In the end, the punishment worked, but the guilt I felt after was terrible.

It didn’t help that a few weeks later, after a similar episode, the kiddo sulked during the entire class. With the help of the teacher, I escaped out of the room, only to find out when I returned that he did not participate. At. All. He instead chose to sit in the corner and sulk, while the rest of the kids, his friends included, had a blast crafting it up.

I again, was heart broken. In fact, if he hasn’t already been signed up for the next session, I would have thrown my hands up in the air and been done with it. My guilty, aching, mommy heart can only take so much.

That brings us to this week. Wednesday morning actually. The kiddo and I had been talking all week about how fun class was going to be. We guessed at the different projects he would be creating. We wondered who would be in the class with him. We cheered at the idea of Miss Ashley teaching again. And we discussed how I would leave the classroom, to go up stairs, but that I would return at the end of class. I will always come back for him.

Always. I drilled this point home.

The morning of the class was met with excitement, anticipation and the promise of a special treat after class. If he stayed in the room and completed the art project. If he did not, then there would be no reward. I was doing my best to make it a positive situation. I was focusing on the fun he would have, the things he would create, and his special treat after. It all seemed to be going so well.

Until…

There’s always an until. The more I sweetly coaxed him into the room, the more he resisted. The more I encouraged and dangled his treat in front of his nose {okay, not literally, that would have been mean} the clingier he became. I carried him into the room, since he’s feet seemed to be glued to the floor, and he melted down upon entering. Tears, cries, clinging to me. Seriously, he wrapped his arms around my body and I could not pry him off.

Still, I remained calm. I was determined to defuse the situation and return a happy, smiling child to the class. We left the room so we could talk. I help him close to me and explained that I would come back to get him. I’d be very close by, just upstairs. I promised that he would have fun, and in just a little while, I would come back.

I will always come back.

I was kicked and slapped in frustration. In my little boy’s world, that’s the only way he knows how to react when he’s so overwhelmed by emotion.

Still, I remained calm. I reminded him of his reward, if he would just stop crying and go into the room.

Slap. Kick. Scream.

“I want to go hoooome…”

I was out of ideas. I wanted to so badly to just pick him up and take him home. But I couldn’t. Not because that would mean that he had won {I hate losing, even to my child}. Not because it would have meant giving in to him. But simply because he needs to learn how to be apart from me.

He’s three. Preschool is just around the corner. Baby brother is weeks away. We need some time to slowly work into his being more independent. For him. For me. For all of us really.

So I picked him up, hugged him tightly to me, and asked the teacher for her help. I calmly explained that nothing I was doing was helping, and that I needed her to keep him in the room while I left. If he didn’t calm down, she could come and find me.

Then, with a very supportive friend, we walked up the stairs, not turning around. Hoping for the best.

And this time, the best happened. A few short minutes after I left, he stopped crying. Soon after he was crafting it up. Superhero-style. He had fun, forgot about me, and moved on.

I had fun, didn’t let guilt consume me, and moved on.

It doesn’t feel right letting him kick and scream, calling my name, struggling with the teacher attempting to break free and run to me. It doesn’t feel right turning my back and walking away. Every part of me, my heart, my mind, my arms, my toes, wants to run back and comfort him. Take him away, whisk him home and into my loving embrace. Forever.

Forever.

But I can’t. That wouldn’t be right. I don’t want to overprotect my son. He needs to learn to be on his own. He needs to cry and worry and get over it. He needs to learn how to deal with emotions that overwhelm him at times. And I, as his parent, as his mother, need to allow him do this.

Even though in my heart, it doesn’t feel like the class was a success, my head knows that it was. And so does my son. It was good for both of us to go through this.

You know how I know? Because when I told my mom about it, she said “Good job Mom!”

No matter how old I get, it’s always good to have her support.

And next week, the kiddo and I are working on not crying when I leave.

I have high hopes.

Have you experienced moments in parenting that feel wrong, but are somehow right? How do you help your children become more independent?

This post is proudly linked to imperfect prose and Simple Moments.

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Tagged as: imperfect prose, letting kids grow up, parenting the hard way, preshooler tantrums, simple moments bigger picture