Discipline with Love

When I was eight, I did something I felt bad about.

That afternoon after school, when it was too hot outside and your body was moving faster than your mind, it happened. The ball flew over the fence and hit our neighbor's flower pot because I kicked it too hard.

It stopped my heart when I heard it break.

I looked around. There was no one around to see.

I left it. That's it.

That night, my dad walked into the room where I was lying on the floor drawing robots on scrap paper. After standing there for a second, he sat down next to me.

He said in a calm voice,

"I saw something broken in the neighbor's yard."

I kept drawing. I pretended I didn't understand what he was saying.

He gave me a soft look.

"What happened to the ball today?"

I took a break. My hand stopped moving. "I think it hit something," I said in a whisper.

"I did not mean to."

It didn't make him mad. Not even a sigh from him. He just said,

"Okay" with a nod.

"Let's go clean it up."

He could have scolded me right then. Could have told me I wasn't careful or that I should have been honest sooner.

He didn't, though.

We walked across the street together instead. He had the dustpan and a small trash bag with him.

He gave me the small broom when we got to the broken pot.

He told me to slow down.

"Be careful with the pieces. They're sharp."

We didn't talk while we worked. I could feel the shame in my chest, but being with him kept it from turning into fear.

He looked at me after we were done and said something that I still remember.

"I believe Mrs. Ong should hear it from you."

I looked at her door like it was a mountain.

"What if she gets mad?" I asked.

He said,

"She might. But she'll also see that you want to make things right."

I took a deep breath and knocked.

I said, "I'm sorry," as she opened the door.

"I broke your planter. I should have told you, even though it was an accident."

She laughed. "Thank you for telling me. That means a lot."

She even gave me a cookie and said the pot wasn't very special.

But I will always remember that day

It didn't happen to me. No one yelled at me.

But I had a stronger feeling. I felt responsible.

Not in a heavy way. More like they thought I could grow up a bit.

That's what my dad taught me that day. That kind of discipline is more than just telling them what they did wrong. It means being there for someone as they try to fix things.

I will never forget another moment

I lied when I said I was done with my homework.

My dad saw the open book on the table, but it was already time for bed. He didn't yell. Not an accusation.

He walked into my room and sat on the bedside rail.

He asked,

"Did you finish your homework?"

I looked at him, then turned my head away. "Not yet."

He said,

"Okay. Then, let's do it together."

I didn't understand. I thought I was going to get in trouble. He brought the book to my bed, sat next to me, and helped me figure it out.

I wasn't getting anything from him. He sat there with me so I wouldn't feel alone.

I learned a new kind of discipline that night. The kind that doesn't just teach you how to be responsible, but also shows you that even when you mess up, you're still deserving of kindness.

Now that I’m older, I realize he was never trying to control me.

He was trying to raise someone who knew how to be accountable, how to be honest, and how to make things right.

Fear wasn't used by him. He used being there. He didn' need to use his loud voice. What he did spoke louder than any punishment.

When you discipline with love, you don't avoid the hard things.

You still have to teach. You are still in charge of the line.

You do it in a way that makes your child stronger, not weaker.

Kids also forget a lot of what you say.

But they don’t forget how you made them feel.

That's a discipline that lasts. The kind that changes a person for a long time after the event is over.

I hope to do the same for someone I love one day.