It’s Hard Not To Say I’m Sorry

Another blog post from the archives. I originally wrote this one just over a year ago. I’m happy to report that I have gotten better at over-apologizing. It’s still there, but I continue to work on it, as well as many other bad habits I picked up over time. I truly am a work in progress, but every day I get a little closer to where I want to be.
This morning I was listening to one of my favorite Pandora radio stations, 80’s Love Songs, as I often do while I get ready for work. An old favorite by Chicago filled the bathroom and I soon found myself humming along. As I worked on taming my wicked cowlick I glanced down at my phone noting the familiar tune.
Hard to Say I’m Sorry.
I laughed to myself at the irony.
Just last night I was hanging out at the island while John prepared dinner for the girls and I. This is becoming a fairly regular treat for us. He enjoys cooking for me and I enjoy keeping him company while he does. Occasionally I pop in and help him with various tasks.
“Sorry,” I say when I have to reach in front of him to throw something away.
“Sorry,” I say when I accidentally drop the spatula on the floor.
“Sorry,” I say when he splatters grease on his shirt.
“Don’t be sorry,” John says calmly.
“I’m sorry I say sorry so much,” I say with a wry smile.
He wraps his arms around me and tells me I have nothing to be sorry about. He has such a calming effect on me. I’m surprised I haven’t grown more used to the environment that is created in his presence. I know what he says is true. I don’t have to apologize for every little thing. It’s a bad habit I’m trying to kick.
When you’re married to someone with a quick temper you learn to adapt to the behavior exhibited. I adapted by apologizing every time something promised to make him angry. Towards the end, it seemed everything showed that promise… So I apologized a lot. It wasn’t until recently that I even realized how much I say it.
I’m sorry.
Two little words. What do they really mean anyway?
I used to say, “Saying I’m sorry means you’ll never do it again.” To me it’s like a period at the end of a sentence. A statement of, “I messed up. I learned my lesson and it won’t happen again. I feel bad that I hurt you.”
But let’s face it, it doesn’t always work that way.
I work at a school. I am around children all day long that mess up, get in trouble, apologize, and five minutes later they are back to the same behaviors that they apologized for moments before. Where do these children learn these destructive behaviors? Of course we all know the answer. The apples don’t fall far from the trees.
So we are a nation of people misbehaving, apologizing, and teaching our children to do the same. It’s OK to make the tiny little girl cry with a snarky comment about her size as long as you apologize after. It’s OK to disrespect your teacher with backtalk and sarcasm as long as you fill out a “think about it” form.
It’s OK to lie, cheat, and treat your wife of fifteen years like something you would scrape off the bottom of your shoe, as long as you tell her you’re sorry you hurt her, right?
Wrong.
This afternoon, after a rather trying day with fourth graders, I grudgingly dragged the rake from the garage and started on the grueling task of spring cleanup. I’ve put it off long enough, the winter dog poop is not going to clean itself up, so I started scraping away at the mess. It’s amazing the amount of shit that can be dug up while doing a little yard work, and ironically I’m not talking about the doggy doo. As I dug away at the dead grass, leaves and fecal matter I felt my anger growing. It was another reminder of the life he built for us and later abandoned. I haven’t completely healed from the hurt. Most of the time I feel like it is behind me, but times like today… I’m not there yet. My earlier conversation on the phone with DB had set my mood.
He told me he wanted to bring something over on Sunday for Mother’s Day for me from the girls. I told him it wasn’t necessary. He insisted. I insisted it would not be necessary. I proceeded to remind him how every Mother’s Day I have ever had has been tainted in some way. He had made a tradition of it. I asked him why bother try now? It wasn’t about the gifts. I had always just wanted one day that I felt special and appreciated. But without fail I had always ended up having to do the laundry, never going anywhere or doing anything I enjoyed, and just once it would have been nice if I had been the one napping late in the afternoon on the couch.
Then I get a text from him. He understands how I feel and he’s sorry.
Oh…no…he didn’t just say he’s sorry did he?
So I asked him, does he have any idea how horrible he was to me those last couple of years? The lies, the secret phone calls and hidden texts, the refusing to do anything with me or the kids, how he put his job first, his inability to keep up with any of his household duties, incessant attitude and major anger issues?
But hey, he said he was sorry… I should be magically all better.
It’s like I told the kids at school today. If I take a beautiful china plate and smash it into the floor then super glue it back together it might look like a plate but it’s not going to be so beautiful anymore. It’s going to be scarred forever. Twenty seven years ago a boy from my class made fun of me for my last name. He called me “Wilbur the Pig” and laughed. Oh yeah, it was so much more humorous because I was chubby like a pig. That’s pretty much how he put it.
It’s been twenty seven years and I don’t think I would remember it any less if he had apologized for making fun of me.
So for now, for me. I am going to work on saying I’m sorry less.
It’s time to kick this bad habit.