It is a late lunch day.

With brunch completed mid-morning, I am now in the process of collecting my thoughts so as to get in a frame of mind for lunch preparations. What to make? I quickly remember that I have everything for homemade pizza, and I call for helpers.

Usually, there is a scramble of girls competing for the counter space. But to my surprise, Son announces that it has been a while since he has made anything with me and that he would like to help. I am pleased- he usually passes on cooking. But since it was a storm day today and school is off, he is feeling particularly generous with his time. I am also secretly delighted that we will have some mother-son time together.

We start to gather our supplies and right away I think to myself ‘back off- let him do this’. I step away for a moment and occupy myself with something on the other side of the sink.

“Ohhh…” I hear him say.

I turn my head and discover that in pouring the flour mixture into the bowl, he has spilled it on the counter, a bit on himself, and then more down the side of the cupboard and onto the rug below where it is collecting in a circular pile. I immediately go into my neat-nik self and rush over, start to cluck- hem and haw. I can hear myself becoming too quickly frustrated at this unexpected mess that I now feel responsible to clean up, and I know where this is headed. Not like I scolded in a mean way- but he knew. I was tense.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” he says to me quietly.

I look up, and watch him turn away. I watch as he walks slowly over to the red corner chair and perches on the edge. We are both on edge now- both literally and figuratively.

And at this juncture, I start to talk to myself:

“Is this what you want- your Son to believe that he isn’t capable of making this pizza? That in making a small mess, he is inconveniencing you? That this minor mess is really worth making an issue over? That this is even something to stress over, tense up about? Do you want to lose this opportunity over a bit of split flour? Give your head a shake, girl.”

I make a choice in that moment. And that choice was an apology. Followed by an explanation.

What I said was this:
“I am sorry that I reacted this way. This is not a big deal. I really want you to make the pizza, and I want you to know that my response wasn’t the right one. Furthermore, I want you to know that when we make mistakes, I know that these are the moments we learn the most. Please don’t think that in spilling the flour it should keep you from making the pizza. I am sorry.”

Sons are so gracious to moms with lots to learn.

We ended up making that pizza together, and it was an absolute work of art. Son took the better part of an hour to carefully put each topping, each slice of meat on where it suited best. I cannot honestly say I have ever seen a better looking pizza. But more than that, this time of meal preparation was a learning experience for me personally. Because I am starting to realize how very much I benefit from learning about my own mistakes and how I need to find ways to come out a better person for having taken a wrong turn.

I wish I hadn’t reacted so quickly to the split flour.

But because of my own mistake, I discovered that these are experiences that can help us grow as individuals into more capable, understanding people. We learn from mistakes when we choose to do so, carry forward stronger, more knowledgeable than we were before. And even moms have their moments when the lessons learned are very humbling.

At least they are for me.