Is It Okay To Let Kids Make Bad Decisions When They Know Better?
The blue gallon of vinegar was still sticky under my fingers from hauling it in from the car when Lila, my 11-year-old, looked up from her phone and said she was starting her science fair project that night. It was 7 PM the night before judging. She’d known about the deadline for 21 days. I’d taped the reminder to the fridge. She’d stayed up two hours late panicking over a last-minute book report three months before, and complained for a week that she’d never wait that long again. “You know this isn’t going to go well,” I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. “I know,” she said, twisting the end of her hoodie string. “But I want to do it my way.”
I leaned against the counter and almost argued. I almost offered to clear my schedule, help her shape the papier mâché right then, get it done right and avoid the disappointment I could see coming a mile away. I still carry the memory of my own 7th grade science fair failure, the sting of getting a C when I’d wanted to place, and I didn’t want her to feel that. But then I thought of my own mom, and the bangs I cut when I was 12. I knew they’d turn out bad. She told me they’d turn out bad. I still begged to do it myself. She stepped back, handed me the scissors, and let me. They were lopsided and way too short, and I wore a headband for a month. I never cut my own hair again. If she’d stopped me, I would have snuck the scissors when she was out, and I would have blamed her if it went wrong anyway.
So I nodded at Lila’s project spread across the table. “Okay,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
What followed went exactly how I expected. She mixed the papier mâché paste too thin, and the whole structure collapsed an hour in. She huffed, threw a crumpled paper towel across the room, and glared at me when I walked in to check on her. I didn’t offer to rebuild it for her. I just handed her a roll of paper towels and the hot glue gun (I stood by while she used it) and left her to it. She got the volcano glued back together by 10 PM, but the blue acrylic paint was still wet when she packed it into her backpack for school. It smudged all over her hypothesis display board on the drive. She came home with a participation certificate and a frown, grabbed two cherry popsicles from the freezer, and sat down on the front porch steps.
I didn’t say “I told you so.” That’s the first thing I’ve learned about this whole situation: leading with that line shuts down every bit of learning that could come from the mistake. The kid stops thinking about their choice and starts defending themselves against your I-know-better attitude. I just sat down next to her, took the popsicle she offered, and waited. After five minutes of staring at the oak tree across the street, she said, “I should have started earlier.” I asked her what she thought she’d do differently for the next big assignment. She didn’t look at me for a minute, then said she was going to write three small check-ins on her phone calendar, starting a week out. That plan was hers, not mine. It didn’t come from a lecture I gave, it came from her sitting with the bad outcome of her own choice.
A friend of mine who teaches 4th grade told me she does the same thing with kids who forget their lunch. As long as the office can give them a free granola bar to tide them over, she doesn’t call parents to bring the lunch in. Nine times out of ten, that kid remembers their lunch the next day, way faster than the kid whose mom drops it off every single time. It sounds harsh at first, but it’s just letting natural consequences do the work, instead of us stepping in and taking the lesson away.
The concrete thing any parent can do this week is sort out your bad decision buckets when you’re calm, not in the middle of an argument. First bucket: any decision that will cause permanent harm or put someone in danger. That’s where you step in, no questions asked. Jumping off the roof, skipping a seatbelt, talking to strangers online—those go here. Second bucket: any decision that will just end with disappointment, discomfort, or a bad grade. That’s the bucket where you step back, most of the time. It doesn’t mean you don’t care, it just means you let them feel the result of what they chose.
Last weekend, we had a soccer game, and Lila decided she didn’t want to wear her shin guards because they’re itchy. She knew the coach requires them, and she knew she could get hurt sliding for the ball. I reminded her of both those things, and she said she’d be fine. I told her if the coach sends her to the bench, I wasn’t going to run the extra pair out to her before the first half was over. She nodded, and headed onto the field. Sure enough, the coach pulled her aside before kickoff and made her sit for the first 10 minutes. She came over to me at halftime, asked for the extra pair I keep in the car, and didn’t even argue when I got it for her without saying a word. After the game, she told me she’d never forget her shin guards again.
We’re still working on this. She still waits until the last minute sometimes, she still makes choices I know are going to go wrong. I still have to bite my tongue to keep from stepping in. But so far, it’s working better than any lecture I’ve ever given. I don’t expect her to never make a bad decision. I just want her to learn how to handle it when she does.
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