Sorry Seems to Be the Easiest Word
Yesterday’s post was titled “I’m sorry.” Go ahead and check if you missed it. I’ll wait.
After slamming Abbie’s finger in the door, I held her while uttering, “I’m sorry” in between prayers that the bone was still intact. In between wails, Abbie would occasionally utter back, “I’m sorry.” That gives the phrase a double meaning, a writing technique employed by successful blogs with daily readerships numbering in the thousands. I tried borrowing the technique, but ran out of time to explain the title’s double meaning in yesterday’s post. That may be why my daily readership numbers in the tens.
Hearing my toddler say “I’m sorry” as she chokes back tears after my actions hurt her was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life, right up there with Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS. I was the one who was sorry. I should’ve watched the door hinge door to make sure no body parts were in the way as I shut the door. She had nothing to be sorry about, except for maybe disobeying my direct order to stay inside by rushing the door as I tried to close it, but she was just pushing her limits. As a toddler, that’s her job; just as it’s my job to note the ways my children hurt themselves and ensure that it never happens again.
I’m happy that Abbie is finally talking. I waited her entire life to find out what she was thinking, and it turns out she’s thinking about the things I say around her. Obviously, I say I’m sorry around her a lot.
Living in our tiny home, I frequently cross paths with my children. As I move between rooms, they might be standing in a narrow hallway, or in a doorway, or in the only passable stretch of the living room with the toys piled on all sides. I’ll say “excuse me” or some other polite mannerism that I wish my children would mimic. Naturally, that fails to register, and the children continue their business, usually competing in a staring contest with the crayon doodles on the wall. I could gently move the child aside, but I rarely have the time for such pleasantries since I’m in a rush to do something, such as comfort a screaming child after falling off a piece of furniture. Plus, I frequently have a load of laundry or possibly dirty dishes* occupying my hands.
Therefore, I blast through the passageway while repeating, “excuse me.” Sometimes I emerge on the other side without adding another screaming child to the household, but too often I bonk the child on my way through. Sometimes it’s with my foot, other times with my knee, and still other times with the laundry basket. The result is a near-fatal blow that can only be cured by more parental attention than the child who fell off the kitchen table is getting.
Fortunately, that tap on the shoulder doesn’t affect the memory. Abbie remembers that I say, “I’m sorry” after I bump her. She’s therefore interpreted “I’m sorry” as the proper thing to say when she’s hurt. When she trips running through the house, she says “sorry.” When the dog knocks her over on the way to bark at our backyard’s menacing wildlife, she says “sorry.” When the door hinge catches her finger, she says “sorry.”
If only she would say “sorry” after shoving her brothers to the ground. That might help dry their tears, thus preventing me from barging through the house while lugging laundry upstairs.
* Or sometimes both.
After slamming Abbie’s finger in the door, I held her while uttering, “I’m sorry” in between prayers that the bone was still intact. In between wails, Abbie would occasionally utter back, “I’m sorry.” That gives the phrase a double meaning, a writing technique employed by successful blogs with daily readerships numbering in the thousands. I tried borrowing the technique, but ran out of time to explain the title’s double meaning in yesterday’s post. That may be why my daily readership numbers in the tens.
Hearing my toddler say “I’m sorry” as she chokes back tears after my actions hurt her was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life, right up there with Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS. I was the one who was sorry. I should’ve watched the door hinge door to make sure no body parts were in the way as I shut the door. She had nothing to be sorry about, except for maybe disobeying my direct order to stay inside by rushing the door as I tried to close it, but she was just pushing her limits. As a toddler, that’s her job; just as it’s my job to note the ways my children hurt themselves and ensure that it never happens again.
I’m happy that Abbie is finally talking. I waited her entire life to find out what she was thinking, and it turns out she’s thinking about the things I say around her. Obviously, I say I’m sorry around her a lot.
Living in our tiny home, I frequently cross paths with my children. As I move between rooms, they might be standing in a narrow hallway, or in a doorway, or in the only passable stretch of the living room with the toys piled on all sides. I’ll say “excuse me” or some other polite mannerism that I wish my children would mimic. Naturally, that fails to register, and the children continue their business, usually competing in a staring contest with the crayon doodles on the wall. I could gently move the child aside, but I rarely have the time for such pleasantries since I’m in a rush to do something, such as comfort a screaming child after falling off a piece of furniture. Plus, I frequently have a load of laundry or possibly dirty dishes* occupying my hands.
Therefore, I blast through the passageway while repeating, “excuse me.” Sometimes I emerge on the other side without adding another screaming child to the household, but too often I bonk the child on my way through. Sometimes it’s with my foot, other times with my knee, and still other times with the laundry basket. The result is a near-fatal blow that can only be cured by more parental attention than the child who fell off the kitchen table is getting.
Fortunately, that tap on the shoulder doesn’t affect the memory. Abbie remembers that I say, “I’m sorry” after I bump her. She’s therefore interpreted “I’m sorry” as the proper thing to say when she’s hurt. When she trips running through the house, she says “sorry.” When the dog knocks her over on the way to bark at our backyard’s menacing wildlife, she says “sorry.” When the door hinge catches her finger, she says “sorry.”
If only she would say “sorry” after shoving her brothers to the ground. That might help dry their tears, thus preventing me from barging through the house while lugging laundry upstairs.
* Or sometimes both.
posted by Matt at
11:14 PM
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