‘Why?’ can be a question best left unasked

Sometimes I’m not sure who says, “Why?” more often — my two-year-old or me. I don’t know why I continue to ask it as I don’t believe I have ever once received a satisfactory answer.

So when I walked in the kitchen to see my nine-year-old son holding a television remote under his chin and the fridge door open with his butt while trying to pour milk from a four-litre jug in his left hand into the world’s smallest juice glass clutched crookedly in his right hand, all I could say is, “Why? Why did you do that?”

“What do you mean?” he asked standing in a puddle of milk.

The expression on his face was clearly communicating the question made no sense to him.

“Why didn’t you just set down the remote? Why didn’t you set the glass on the table? When it started spilling, why didn’t you stop pouring? Why didn’t you use a bigger glass?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think of that stuff. I didn’t mean to spill it. Sorry, Mom.”

“Well, get busy, because I’m not cleaning that up,” I said raising my voice and assuming the hands-on-the-hips stance.

But of course we both knew this to be patently untrue, because 90 seconds after he had used half a roll of paper towel (Do you know how expensive that is and bad for the environment? Why? Why didn’t you use a cloth?) and then carried the dripping towels over to the garbage thereby widening the spill zone by 10 feet (Why? Why didn’t you put your hand under the paper towel so it wouldn’t drip all over the place?) I was on my knees with a wet rag stuck onto a broom handle trying to wipe up all the milk that had flowed under the fridge. Still muttering, “why?”

Ten minutes later when everything was cleaned up, I really did feel bad. He looked sad. And I felt crummy about overreacting — over spilled milk of all the cliche things to get cranky about.

I apologized, but I knew the damage had been done — mostly by the whys.

I was starting to realize what a loaded question “Why?” is — especially when you’re not expecting a reasonable answer to it.

Let’s face it, what we’re really saying is “Why were you so foolish? Why did you make such a poor decision?”

None of these questions actually contribute anything valuable to a conversation or to a child’s sense of confidence.

As parents, the willingness to extend grace and mercy often collides with our momentary frustration.

We love to receive grace, but we are often indignant about dishing it out. We feel like people, including our children, should get what they deserve. And sometimes this is true. I’m all about consequences.

But rubbing it in always flies in the face of grace.

So fast-forward two weeks. I decide to take the kids on vacation back to Saskatchewan while my oldest son attends teen camp and my husband is at work.

We pack up our old, diesel Suburban, Big Red, for the trip, and my husband dutifully checks the oil and fills it up before sending us off on the 500-kilometre drive.

On the way back, however, I remember to get diesel, slushes for the kids and Cheezies for the toddler, but I neglect to check the oil. I think you can see where this is going.

We made it home all right, but the next day on my way to pick up my oldest son from camp, Big Red started squealing and smok- ing like nobody’s business. The engine was seized. No oil. “Did you check the oil before you left?” my husband asked me calmly after his very brief chat with our mechanic. “Um, no.” I could see the “Why?” on his lips, or rather the “Why not?”

But unlike me, he left it unasked because he knew it was a question with no satisfying answer.

In marriage as in parenthood, there are ultimately only two ways to respond when things go wrong and someone is very obviously to blame — you can respond with grace or without it.

Big Red has been replaced by an equally aged and esteemed Suburban affectionately known as Great White.

And I’m sure I will have to choke on the whys as the kids christen her with tipped-over slushies and muddy boot prints.

Nothing inspires grace, however, quite like receiving it.