Lessons from a child's wisdom during a family disagreement
In her column, Tracy shares experiences and lessons learnt as she navigates life and grows with her two boys. To share your views email Tracy on [email protected]
Image: File
My boy reminded us that childhood memories lasts a lifetime
Image: Selfie by dad
It started as one of those perfectly ordinary Saturdays that every parent knows by heart. Dad went off to work. I stayed home with the boys, moving between the kitchen, the lounge and the constant hum of childhood energy that somehow never runs out. The kind of day that doesn’t feel memorable while you’re in it until it suddenly is.
It was also pay-day weekend, which any mom with a child at crèche and another at school or aftercare will immediately understand. Snack stress.
That quiet panic of realising the cupboards are looking a little too bare for children who seem to eat with the enthusiasm of professional athletes. I still don’t know where they get the energy to eat as much as they do, but I do know this: snacks are non-negotiable.
So the plan was simple. Once dad got home and had a moment to breathe, we’d head to the shops for necessities the very real, very urgent kind that only parents recognise as emergencies.
Dad got home, settled in for a bit, and when I suggested we go out, he mentioned that the shops would be mad because it was pay-day weekend. I tried to explain that the kids needed snacks and that there were a few other basics we genuinely needed in the house. Somewhere in that exchange, our voices started to rise. Not screaming. Not dramatic. Just two tired adults talking over each other, each convinced they were making sense.
Dad walked out to the back to cool down. I stood there, still feeling that tightness in my chest that arguments leave behind, when I felt a small hand rest gently on my shoulder.
“Mommy,” my seven-year-old said, “when daddy shouts, you try not to shout too, please? Because shouting is not nice, and it’s not going to solve anything.”
Those words stopped me in my tracks.
Not because they were loud or dramatic but because they were calm, thoughtful and painfully wise. Somewhere in between the raised voices, he had been listening. Paying attention. Feeling something he didn’t like, even if he didn’t yet have all the words for it.
And just like that, I was transported back to my own childhood.
I remembered sitting quietly while my parents had the occasional shouting match. How it made my stomach knot. How I didn’t like it, but didn’t feel brave enough to say anything. How I absorbed the tension in silence and waited for it to pass.
In that moment, I realised something important: I now stood on the other side of that memory. And this time, I could choose differently.
Later that evening, dad and I sat in the yard, the earlier disagreement long behind us. I told him what our son had said to me. I told him how it took me straight back to my childhood, to feelings I hadn’t thought about in years. He admitted he’d experienced the same growing up.
We didn’t blame each other. We didn’t dramatise it. We simply agreed that we could do better.
We decided that heated conversations could wait until the kids were asleep. That reacting in the heat of the moment wasn’t worth the cost. That protecting our peace mattered but protecting their childhood memories mattered even more.
And to the keyboard warriors and perfect parents who might rush to judge, negatively comment or point fingers, may you be blessed and continue living your flawless lives.
The rest of us are learning. Sometimes from books. Sometimes from experience. And sometimes, from the smallest voice in the room, reminding us who we want to be.