When I was young I hated having to choose. I always knew that whichever choice I made, I would regret it. Inevitably, I would make the “wrong” choice.
If I had to choose whether to spend the weekend with my mother at home or my dad in New York City, I knew that halfway through the weekend I would wish I was with the opposite parent. I was certain that the grass was always greener wherever I wasn’t, and that it was my fault – my ignorance and my mistake – for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fast forward many, many years and many, many decisions later, and I still stumbled when asked to choose. Which entrée did I want? Should I rest or run? Hang at home or go away? My worry that life would be better on the road not taken could keep me from taking any road, from making any choice. And every parent’s nightmare (or at least mine) – I watched my kids struggle at times with the same challenge. I watched their indecision and their consequent regret. I understood it, and hated seeing it.
Then someone suggested that I simply make a decision and then make it the right one. That I choose not to second guess. Not to allow myself to rethink what I’d already thought through. That once my decision was made, I should just tell myself that it was right, look for evidence of my excellent choice, and allow myself to enjoy the outcome. This new approach was so great, I taught it to my kids as well.
Make a decision and make it the right decision. Make a decision and keep reminding myself, if necessary, that I made the right choice – that any choice can be, and was, the right choice. That the grass is a fine color right where I am.
I wonder if I could have been that sure when I was choosing between parents?
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