I’ve got Big Bird singing in my head this week.
One of my favorite Sesame Street songs is the giant bird’s rendition of “Everyone Makes Mistakes.” A sample of its wisdom:
“If you make a mistake, you shouldn’t start to cry.
Mistakes are not so bad, and here is why:
Oh everyone makes mistakes.”
I could have really used the yellow bird’s help on Monday.
The moment I saw Katie walk out of school that afternoon, I knew there was trouble. Her shoulders were slumped. The hair falling in her face didn’t camouflage her tears.
“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” she answered in a half-scream, half-cry.
That’s when I was certain that the day I’d dreaded all school year had happened: Katie had gotten her binder signed, a note from her teacher about a behavior problem. (I wasn’t concerned about a broken rule; I was worried about her reaction. For months I had even coached her on how to handle such an event should it ever occur.)
Her emotions were building faster than she could control them. She was in no condition to walk home in the crowd of families leaving school. So we sat on a nearby bench.
I asked again. She refused to answer. I asked if I could see her folder. Another scream, followed by her desperate grip on her backpack.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Katie,” I told her. “It’s OK. Let’s talk about it and then let it go.”
More screams.
I suggested that we stop by the front office to visit with our beloved guidance counselor. My plan was to (1) get the help of another adult and (2) seek some air conditioning. Katie was a sweaty mess from so much emoting in the sun.
She agreed, and our sad little entourage — crying sister, patient brother and slightly frustrated mother — moved inside. That’s where we learned that the counselor was leading a training session.
The meltdown resumed.
I tried a different approach. Over-the-top stabs at humor.
“Katie, did you climb onto the school’s roof without permission?”
No.
“Did you capture a bunch of mice in a box and then let them run free in a classroom?”
No.
“Did you start a food fight in the cafeteria, and all the kindergartners were throwing mashed potatoes and rolls all over the place, and everyone got it on their clothes and in their hair?”
No. Slight giggle.
“Well, those are the worst things I can think of. So why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
Reactivate meltdown.
I told little stories about people we know, myself included, who make mistakes. Cooper volunteered that he had his binder signed 20 times in kindergarten (a slight exaggeration that I appreciated in the moment).
The school receptionist (and a family friend), who had the pleasure of watching this whole scene unfold, shared some stories, too. She said that when her children make mistakes at school, she loves them and takes care of them just the same.
Katie was slightly more composed after all this talking. She was at least pulled together enough to walk home — though still refusing to reveal her transgression.
At the very end of that walk, she told me what she’d done. She had encouraged three classmates to push chairs together behind the classroom puppet theater and then walk on them to put on a show. All while they were supposed to be working.
That’s why she’d received a warning in her binder, why she didn’t receive a sticker for good behavior as she had the previous 143 days of school.
I thanked her for telling me the truth. Then we talked about the three overriding rules at school — be respectful, responsible and safe — and how she had broken all three at once. But that Tuesday was a new day, and she could try again.
Then I sang a little.
“If everyone in the whole wide world makes mistakes,
Then why can’t you?”
Slight giggle.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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