Chris and I decided to paint a pair of book cases that were in need of a fresh coat of black paint one Saturday. Before we began, I gave him a list of instructions, emphasizing particularly on the black paint and how messy it could be. I badgered him with more and more instructions,
“watch for glumping up the brush with too much paint, make sure you spread the paint evenly so that the paint won’t leave drip marks, watch the floor and your clothes…”.
I watched my son completely detach from our now, not so fun bonding experience. After a while, I walked around to the front of his book shelf, following the black foot prints on the floor. I freaked out when I saw the globs of paint and the drips hardening down the side walls of the case. My hen like yelling only pushed him farther away as I balked and shrieked more and more about how he didn’t listen to me. I watched him shrink back farther and farther way from me, completely disengaging from the whole painting experience all together.
He went into the house to eat as I picked off all the excess paint, immediately feeling horrible for my monstrous OCD moment.
After sitting in my own self explosion of crap painting alone in my murky silence. I went inside and begged Chris for Redemption, asking him to paint with me one more time with a solemn promise of self restraint on my low frequency yelling.
“No”, was his ultimate answer. I begged and pleaded for one more chance…
Finally he gave in with one condition, “No yelling what so ever.” I agreed and asked him to repeat what my instructions were when we started our project together. He recited it all, word for word.
My lesson, My actions are mine. My yelling made me feel like crap and made our experience miserable. They did not serve me. Chris painted in his happiness. He was content being with me.
My words could have served us more if they were productive and constructive for the both of us.
