Golf Balls & Baby Gates

When I was seven, I remember rolling a golf ball through the gaps in the baby gate at the top of our stairs. There was a criss-cross pattern of wood on the gate, an accordion style, moved in and out. And the golf ball just fit through the gaps. So I would throw it through, and scramble down to retrieve it, and pull myself back up to throw again. The carpet was so soft, deep, not too shaggy, enough to get a good roll. I even got some lift off the top step. And then I threw a really good one, and it went right through the stained glass window. An old house in Toronto, we had those small beveled glass window panes, nine in a frame, and the golf ball went right through one of them - made a good smashing sound.

And I stopped. And felt rather horrified. Now I had a choice. I could tell my mother. Or not. I could retrieve the golf ball, and hide it somewhere, and go do something else. And pretend I had no idea. Lie. Or fess up. I so remember this as a turning point. This moment at the top of a hill. Which side to go down. To tell it how it is, and face the consequences. Or run and hide, and avoid everything.

My Mom came up the stairs, and there it was. My time to decide. "Um, uh. Mom, I broke the window." I remember her response so distinctly. And it changed everything. In that one moment. She said, "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" And then she said, "Don't worry about it honey, it's just a window. The most important thing is that you told me."

And I trusted her implicitly from then on. I knew she had my back. I could tell her anything, and she would take it in, and hold it. And not use it against me. What mattered was my honesty. My open-ness. She started from "I believe you. I trust your decisions." And that made all the difference in the world.


(Writer's note: I missed my 3rd post last week, so am back on track to my commitment of writing three times a week. Yay.)