For some reason, she had been having a hard time as of late. Though typically slotted as most apt to obey under our wild roof, she had recently shed the title like a snakeskin and slithered straightway toward monikers such as Eve or Miss Demeanor instead. Ginny and I spent several conversations backtracking to sift through what we had done or what had changed and had she been getting enough protein? Enough sleep? Sufficient attention? Maybe some other student at her school had said something evil and if so it was probably a boy and I bet you I know which one it was. In my head, I was going over allowable protocol for confronting a pre-schooler.
But the more we scoured for answers, the more befuddled we became. If you don’t know my logic-loving 5-yr old Hazel, then I cannot fathom how to introduce her to you. She is sweet in an arms-length distance sort of way. She laughs loud and hard but never at punchlines unless they contain potty words and most often at her brother or something you are unable to find as funny. She is measured, taking it all in and though she likes to color, her world is black and white.
She had sneaked some candy into a backseat cubby of Big Red (our despised mini van) and was popping pieces like an addict while on road trips to school, Lena’s therapy or anywhere around town would provide sufficient time for a candy high. Ginny caught her and calmly talked to her. It didn’t work. Her wayward ways continued and we were baffled with the one who weeks earlier had a halo.
And then she stole a pink bracelet from Target.
Yep, she sure did.
5-finger discounted that bad-boy right out the door.
Then proceeded to carry it in her waistband out the door and home and it hid out there for the remainder of most of the day. Then her mom found it. The tag still dangling. The horror settling in that we were raising a felon. And a dang good one at that.
She calmly broke the news to me in a way that let me know that she thought this was a time when dad should do whatever dad does when the kids steal stuff. And of course I, ever looking, saw an opportunity to teach. Whereas Ginny bemoaned of innocence lost; I, instead, felt a rush of excitement. This was my time. She was now six and she had stolen; I had been in the wings waiting for a moment such as this. I had tried to carry my equal weight during the baby phase, but let’s face it, it had not been prime real estate for me. I rocked them when they cried, but they reached over my shoulder for her as fast as I could pick them up. I kissed boo-boos and wiped bottoms but never with the tender, euphoric joy of Ginny.
I knew my day would come. And now it stared me in the face, looking much like a cheap, pink bracelet with a dangling tag. I pounced like Ward Cleaver on the teachable moment that was finally mine.
I buckled her into the car and headed for Target- giddy with visions of wise dads gone by. On the drive, she asked my about police and if she would go to jail. I comforted her with a cool reply of, “we’ll see.” I followed her through the doors and to the counter where she explained what she had done, handed back the loot and asked if she could come back again if she promised to not steal. I was watching her learn. On our way out the automatic double doors, I stopped her to say that when we walk out these doors, it is done. Completely forgotten. In the past and over. She smiled and we crossed the threshold of forgiveness together, holding hands all the while.
My lesson was not over. I had saved my best object lesson not for the end but as an encore. She thought it was over, but daddy was coming back on stage with a goody back of wisdom, certain to never be forgotten.
Upon approach of the car in the parking lot, I place my arms on her shoulder and said the following:
“Wait. We’re going back in. I want to teach you about grace. Grace is getting what you don’t deserve. Jesus has given me grace and I want you to know how good His grace is. Hazel, you can pick out any toy in the store you want and I will buy it for you. You stole a cheap bracelet, now let’s go pick out an awesome toy. Cause that is grace.”
She meandered the aisles for what seemed like hours. She had never had this opportunity before. After much debate, she chose a twin set up puppies complete with carrying bag. They were hideous but she was ecstatic. I reveled in the lesson as I retold Ginny with an heir of that’s what dads do when the kids go to stealin’.
Later that week, Hazel took the pups to Show & Tell at her school. When she returned home, we quizzed her as to what she had told the class; she told us just as it had happened.
“I told them that these were the dogs my dad got me for stealing from Target.”
6,914 Comments
For some reason, she had been having a hard time as of late. Though typically slotted as most apt to obey under our wild roof, she had recently shed the title like a snakeskin and slithered straightway toward monikers such as Eve or Miss Demeanor instead. Ginny and I spent several conversations backtracking to sift through what we had done or what had changed and had she been getting enough protein? Enough sleep? Sufficient attention? Maybe some other student at her school had said something evil and if so it was probably a boy and I bet you I know which one it was. In my head, I was going over allowable protocol for confronting a pre-schooler.
But the more we scoured for answers, the more befuddled we became. If you don’t know my logic-loving 5-yr old Hazel, then I cannot fathom how to introduce her to you. She is sweet in an arms-length distance sort of way. She laughs loud and hard but never at punchlines unless they contain potty words and most often at her brother or something you are unable to find as funny. She is measured, taking it all in and though she likes to color, her world is black and white.
She had sneaked some candy into a backseat cubby of Big Red (our despised mini van) and was popping pieces like an addict while on road trips to school, Lena’s therapy or anywhere around town would provide sufficient time for a candy high. Ginny caught her and calmly talked to her. It didn’t work. Her wayward ways continued and we were baffled with the one who weeks earlier had a halo.
And then she stole a pink bracelet from Target.
Yep, she sure did.
5-finger discounted that bad-boy right out the door.
Then proceeded to carry it in her waistband out the door and home and it hid out there for the remainder of most of the day. Then her mom found it. The tag still dangling. The horror settling in that we were raising a felon. And a dang good one at that.
She calmly broke the news to me in a way that let me know that she thought this was a time when dad should do whatever dad does when the kids steal stuff. And of course I, ever looking, saw an opportunity to teach. Whereas Ginny bemoaned of innocence lost; I, instead, felt a rush of excitement. This was my time. She was now six and she had stolen; I had been in the wings waiting for a moment such as this. I had tried to carry my equal weight during the baby phase, but let’s face it, it had not been prime real estate for me. I rocked them when they cried, but they reached over my shoulder for her as fast as I could pick them up. I kissed boo-boos and wiped bottoms but never with the tender, euphoric joy of Ginny.
I knew my day would come. And now it stared me in the face, looking much like a cheap, pink bracelet with a dangling tag. I pounced like Ward Cleaver on the teachable moment that was finally mine.
I buckled her into the car and headed for Target- giddy with visions of wise dads gone by. On the drive, she asked my about police and if she would go to jail. I comforted her with a cool reply of, “we’ll see.” I followed her through the doors and to the counter where she explained what she had done, handed back the loot and asked if she could come back again if she promised to not steal. I was watching her learn. On our way out the automatic double doors, I stopped her to say that when we walk out these doors, it is done. Completely forgotten. In the past and over. She smiled and we crossed the threshold of forgiveness together, holding hands all the while.
My lesson was not over. I had saved my best object lesson not for the end but as an encore. She thought it was over, but daddy was coming back on stage with a goody back of wisdom, certain to never be forgotten.
Upon approach of the car in the parking lot, I place my arms on her shoulder and said the following:
“Wait. We’re going back in. I want to teach you about grace. Grace is getting what you don’t deserve. Jesus has given me grace and I want you to know how good His grace is. Hazel, you can pick out any toy in the store you want and I will buy it for you. You stole a cheap bracelet, now let’s go pick out an awesome toy. Cause that is grace.”
She meandered the aisles for what seemed like hours. She had never had this opportunity before. After much debate, she chose a twin set up puppies complete with carrying bag. They were hideous but she was ecstatic. I reveled in the lesson as I retold Ginny with an heir of that’s what dads do when the kids go to stealin’.
Later that week, Hazel took the pups to Show & Tell at her school. When she returned home, we quizzed her as to what she had told the class; she told us just as it had happened.
“I told them that these were the dogs my dad got me for stealing from Target.”
6,914 Comments
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This is brilliant. I have to confess something to you Matt Mooney, I too, have stolen something. When are we going shopping?
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you and hazel think alike….so I will be asking you alot of questions soon
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Oh, how I LOVE this post…what a great moment for Hazel and for you. (and I just bet God was grinning at BOTH of these precious children of His.) Thanks, Matt!
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With a story like this, who can doubt our God has a sense of humor?
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oh, Matt. . . this needs to be in Parenting Magazine! Priceless.
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The Fayetteville police may need to profile Hazel’s classmates.
This is brilliant. I have to confess something to you Matt Mooney, I too, have stolen something. When are we going shopping?
you and hazel think alike….so I will be asking you alot of questions soon
Oh, how I LOVE this post…what a great moment for Hazel and for you. (and I just bet God was grinning at BOTH of these precious children of His.) Thanks, Matt!
With a story like this, who can doubt our God has a sense of humor?
oh, Matt. . . this needs to be in Parenting Magazine! Priceless.
The Fayetteville police may need to profile Hazel’s classmates.