I'm Sick

I was such a smart parent before I had children. My kids were never going to screw up.

I'd like to take pre-children Lindsey and smack her.

Last Friday, the husband and I took Jackson and Matthias to the dinosaur museum. We're reading a book about a triceratops for school, and I thought Jackson especially would enjoy going to see one as a mental reference for our story. (He's been there plenty of times, but it seems that colossal creatures never bore little boys.)

Once we were done with our museum tour, we stopped briefly just to look at things in the museum gift shop. Jackson was admiring a box nearly overflowing with colored rocks (I hate that junk. Why must every touristy-type thing have crap rocks?) while my husband and I drifted to various parts of the store. When I came back by, Jackson asked for some rocks and I said, "No." We weren't planning to buy anything that day.

Fast forward to today.

I pulled the blankets out of the baby's bed this morning to wash them when what should I see? A bright pink rock, quite similar to those young Jackson was admiring a few days prior. My heart fell to my belly button as I pulled it out of the baby's bed and took it downstairs. "Jackson, why did I find this in Matthias's room?" I questioned when I arrived downstairs where he was sitting.

His head dropped to his chest, and I knew he was my culprit. Long story short, he thought the rock was cool and decided to keep it. I still wasn't sure how it came to be in the baby's possession, but he admitted to taking it and I sent him to the car faster than you can say "juvie hall." We headed straight to the museum where I told Jackson what his next step was going to be.

I have to credit that museum gift shop worker for her grace under pressure. "We have something that belongs to your store," I said when we arrived. Her expression went from "Huh?" to "I know what's just about to happen here" in exactly 2.25 seconds. I shoved Jackson forward, he explained what happened and apologized, and that sweet woman shook his hand and thanked him for choosing to come back and return the rock. I wanted to throw handcuffs on that hand, but I suppose that's beside the point.

I took my little felon to his dad's work after that (he'd already been made aware of the situation), where Jackson had to recount his actions again and the tears really started to fall. My own heart was breaking when he told his tale. He was hurting, and I had to fight every motherly desire in me to make him feel better because this was a hurt I knew I needed to let him feel.

Jackson said a prayer when he got home, and made one final apology for his actions. His words to his Father in Heaven let me know, too, that he knew he'd made a serious mistake, and he promised never to let anything like that happen again. I hope he remembers this day, and that even though doing the right thing hurts sometimes, doing the wrong thing and having to fix it later usually hurts worse.