Let the Little Things Go

Years ago, before my husband and I were married in our Presbyterian church, our pastor gave us one piece of valuable advice: “Choose your battles,” she told us. “You don’t have to fight over everything.”

If I vacuum up a stray Lego or tiny Barbie shoe, so be it. I don’t really care if Barbie is barefoot.

Now I’m sure she mentioned other very helpful things, too, during our pre-wedding sessions with her. But nothing sticks out in my mind as much as that — probably because I haven’t always followed that advice.

I like to be right. So when I’m upset about something my husband Matt has (or hasn’t) done, I usually let him know. And when it’s about something like emptying the dishwasher or some other equally trivial thing (which it almost always is), Matt likes to remind me about our pastor’s helpful words.

I’ve been trying for years not to be so argumentative. But sometimes I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s because making up later is always so much fun.

While I don’t always choose my battles with my husband, I’m trying to with my kids. Josh, 11, and Kate, 4, do many things that drive me crazy on a regular basis. They’re kids. They’re supposed to drive their parents crazy, so a lot of this is a normal part of parenting.

Over the years, though, I’ve realized that sometimes it’s just not worth it. I can’t argue with my son every day about why it’s so important to make his bed or to put his laundry in his hamper. I can’t keep begging my daughter to please, please, pick up the little Barbie shoes and Legos littering her bedroom floor.

Really, why do we have to make our beds every day? I don’t have an answer for that. So I let some of the little, unimportant things slide for the sake of my sanity. If I vacuum up a stray Lego or tiny Barbie shoe, so be it. I don’t really care if Barbie is barefoot.

Related: Mothers Who Judge Too Harshly

But I’m not always that easygoing.

During the spring and summer, my husband helps coach our son’s baseball team. That means I’m on the sidelines with our daughter.

When she was a baby, I could sit her on a blanket in front of me and chat with the other moms as we cheered for our boys on the field. Kate was perfectly content, right where she was.

But then she became mobile — and all bets were off. I spent most game nights during Kate’s toddler years chasing after her — successfully managing, most of the time, to keep her out of the giant mud puddles that always seemed to accumulate behind the dugouts. (That’s a hallmark of baseball season in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It’s either blazing hot or very rainy.)

Inevitably, Kate found the puddles. And when the puddles weren’t there, she found the dirt.

I had a clean kid. But I missed all the mom gossip. And, more importantly, I usually missed most of the game.

“Hey, Mom! Did you see the catch I made at third base? Did you see me get that guy out?” Josh’s enthusiasm after the game was shadowed by my guilt and my little white lies.

“I did! You looked great out there.”

I’m sure he looked great out there. But something had to change.

Last summer, I decided I wasn’t going to chase Kate around anymore. It just wasn’t worth the effort, or my sanity. And I really wanted to actually watch the game.

Inevitably, Kate found the puddles. And when the puddles weren’t there, she found the dirt. Kate perfected the art of making baseball diamond snow angels. Now, I definitely would have preferred that Kate not play around in the dirt, but she was happy — and she wasn’t running into the street where she actually could get hurt. So why would I stop her?

Best of all, I got to watch the game. I didn’t miss any of the hits or the home runs.

That’s not to say my kids get away with doing whatever they want. They most definitely don’t. I just can’t worry about all the little things that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t really matter. And a little dirt from the baseball game? That definitely doesn’t matter.

But if my husband doesn’t start unloading the dishwasher — that might be something worth arguing about.