When Your Kid Asks “Am I Wrong Or Am I Right?”: How To Respond Without Taking Sides
The kitchen clock reads 7:21 PM, Leo’s soccer cleats are still propped by the door reeking of cut grass, and my third cup of coffee has gone cold. My 10-year-old slams his math workbook down so hard his little sister’s crayon rolls off the table. “Look at this,” he says, jabbing a finger at a red mark on the page. “Mr. Hale took two points off for this. I got all the factors right. Am I wrong or am I right?”
I lean over, and he’s right. The question asked to list all factors of 24. He wrote 24, 12, 8, 6, 4, 3, 2, 1. All correct, just ordered from largest to smallest. The directions said “list in order from least to greatest.” I almost opened my mouth to say what I usually say when this happens: Just fix it, it’s two points, stop being stubborn. Follow the directions, that’s the rule. But I caught myself, because I’d spent that afternoon arguing with my own boss about the same thing: I’d turned in the project with all the correct data, but I’d ordered the sections wrong, and she’d marked it down 10% for not following the template. I knew exactly how that helpless, furious “why does the small stuff matter when I got the big stuff right” feeling felt.
I was stuck, too. If I told Leo he was wrong, I’d be dismissing that frustration, telling him his feelings don’t count. If I told him he was right, I’d be undermining his teacher and teaching him to ignore directions that don’t matter to him. I was asking myself the same question he’d just posed: Am I wrong if I pick his side? Am I wrong if I pick the teacher’s?
Instead of answering, I pulled out a blank sticky note. “Write what you just told me,” I said. “Word for word, what you think, and ask Mr. Hale what he thinks. I’ll send it in with your homework tomorrow.” Leo stared for a second, then grabbed a pencil. He wrote: Hi Mr. Hale, I got all the factors right, I just ordered them backwards. The question is supposed to test if I know what factors are, right? So why do I lose points? Am I wrong?
The next day, Mr. Hale sent a note back. It said: Great question. You’re not wrong that you know your factors. The directions did ask for a specific order, though, and we practice following directions so when you take the big state tests in a couple years, small mix-ups don’t cost you all the points. How’s this: I’ll give you one point back, and next time, you can decide if following the direction is worth the points to you.
That interaction stuck with me, because I realized I’d spent years approaching these moments wrong. When I worked as a classroom aide, and now as a parent, whenever a kid asked “am I wrong or am I right?” I assumed I had to pick a winner and a loser. Either the kid is right and the other person is out of line, or the kid is wrong and they need to apologize or fix it. But most of the time, that question isn’t actually about being right or wrong. It’s about being heard.
Two weeks after the math homework incident, Leo came home from school with a recess referral. He’d argued with the recess monitor about crossing the black line that marks the end of the play area. The monitor said he crossed it, Leo said he didn’t. That night at dinner, he pushed the referral across the table and asked again: “Am I wrong or am I right?”
I didn’t scan the referral or jump to a conclusion first. I said, “Tell me everything that happened, from the start.” He said the line by the soccer goal is all faded, it’s almost gone. He was sure his foot was behind it, but the monitor was standing across the field and couldn’t tell. I nodded, then said, “What do you want to do about this?” He said he didn’t want to just accept the detention, he wanted someone to know the line is too faded to see. So again, he wrote his own note to the principal, I just helped him spell “faded” correctly. Three days later, the principal sent an email saying all the faded playground lines had been repainted. Leo didn’t have to retract his statement, the recess monitor didn’t get in trouble. Both were right: the monitor couldn’t see the line, and Leo hadn’t crossed it.
I’ve started using three small, concrete things when this question comes up now, and they work way better than picking a side. First, I never answer “yes” or “no” right away. I always say “Tell me why you think you’re right.” That gives them space to get the frustration out instead of just digging in their heels. Second, I don’t jump in to fix it for them. If they want to talk to the teacher or the coach or another kid, I let them write down what they want to say first, instead of me drafting an angry email or arguing on their behalf. It’s slower, but it teaches them how to ask for what they need instead of expecting an adult to fix every problem. Third, I say it out loud when both people can be right: “It makes sense that you see it that way, and it also makes sense that they see it that way” instead of forcing a hard conclusion.
It doesn’t work every time. Last week, I was in a hurry to get out the door for school, and Leo argued that he didn’t need a jacket because it was 50 degrees out. I snapped and told him he was wrong, made him bring it, and we left frustrated. I still mess up when I’m tired or busy. I don’t think there’s a perfect answer to the “am I wrong or am I right” question every time. But these days, more often than not, we walk away from these moments without anyone feeling like they lost. Leo’s gotten more comfortable speaking up for himself when he thinks something’s unfair, instead of just giving in or throwing a fit. It’s not a neat fix, and it doesn’t end all arguments. But it’s better than the old days, when we’d spend an hour yelling just to prove one of us was wrong.
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