It was a Friday night, and we were experiencing what has become a fairly predictable event in our house: the Friday Night Freakout.
If you have elementary-aged kids, you probably know exactly what I mean.
They’ve spent five full days following directions, sitting in chairs, learning things, navigating friendships, remembering approximately 900 rules, finding lost water bottles, and generally holding it together in public.
And then they come home on Friday and completely fall apart because their sock feels weird.
Honestly? I get it.
In fact, the Friday Night Freakout happens so regularly at our house that it’s become a running family joke. Someone MUST freak out on Friday night. Apparently, it is required.
Usually, one of the kids handles it for us. But if they somehow make it through the evening without losing their minds over an injustice like the wrong color cup, my husband or I are expected to step up and take our turn.
We all contribute around here.
This particular Friday, though, there was no question who would be fulfilling the family’s weekly freakout obligation.
It involved my 8-year-old and a rare and highly coveted cup of Sprite.
He spilled it.
And then he fell to the floor in utter despair.
Not disappointed.
Not mildly irritated.
Devastated.
You’d think someone had just told him Sprite was discontinued, and this was the last cup on Earth.
My husband and I looked at the Sprite. We looked at the child on the floor. We looked at each other.
Clearly, the response did not match the incident.
But we also knew that this wasn’t really about Sprite.
It was Friday night. He was tired. He’d spent a whole week at school meeting expectations and regulating emotions and being a functioning member of society. His coping skills had officially clocked out for the weekend.
And, technically, someone had to freak out.
The Sprite just happened to be there when it all came crashing down.
So, while helping clean up the spill, we asked him:
“Do you think this is a big problem or a small problem?”
Through his tears, he answered immediately.
“BIG.”
Okay. So, we had some work to do.
We talked it through.
Was anyone hurt?
No.
Was anything permanently damaged?
No.
Could we clean it up?
Yes.
Was there still more Sprite in existence?
Thankfully, yes.
We explained that while his disappointment felt VERY big, the actual problem was pretty small.
And somewhere between the paper towels and emotional recovery, we accidentally stumbled upon one of the most useful parenting tools we’ve tried lately.
Since the Great Sprite Disaster of 2026, we’ve started categorizing problems as a family.
Big problem? Medium problem? Small problem?
And let me tell you, children have some fascinating ideas about this scale.
Not long after the Sprite Incident, their grandmother was in a car accident.
Thankfully, she was okay, but she was shaken up and crying. The boys knew that something serious had happened.
This time, we talked about why a car accident belongs in the big problem category.
Someone could be hurt. A car can be badly damaged. There are insurance companies and repairs and lots of things that grown-ups have to figure out.
But this also gave us a chance to add something important to our little family problem-rating system:
Big doesn’t necessarily mean unsolvable.
Something can be scary and upsetting and still be something we can work through.
Honestly, that’s a distinction I’m still learning at 40-something, so I’m feeling pretty good about introducing it at six and eight.
That same week, my 6-year-old’s little league game was rescheduled because of the weather.
He was disappointed.
We were disappointed.
We had mentally prepared for baseball. He’d worn his team shirt to school. Now the whole plan had changed.
So, we asked:
Big problem or small problem?
After some debate, we landed somewhere in the small-to-medium range.
And I actually like having a medium category because sometimes things genuinely stink without being a crisis.
You don’t have to immediately announce, “WHO CARES? IT’S JUST BASEBALL!”
He cared.
He was allowed to be disappointed.
But the game would happen another day. Nothing terrible had happened. We’d adjust.
Medium-ish problem.
Then last week we took a wrong turn while driving and had to take a detour.
We asked the question.
This time, the boys barely needed us.
Small problem.
We knew where we were going. We’d still get there. It would just take us a few extra minutes.
Look at us! Resilient! Adaptable!
Practically ready for a motivational speaking tour.
The thing I like most about our new family rating system is that I’m trying very hard not to use it to tell my kids they shouldn’t have big feelings.
Because if I’m being honest, that would be a bit hypocritical.
I am a grown woman who has allowed a mildly irritating email to ruin an entire afternoon.
I’ve driven around a parking lot muttering increasingly hostile things under my breath because there were no good spaces.
I’ve experienced the profound betrayal of realizing the grocery pickup forgot the one item I actually needed.
Adults have Friday Night Freakouts, too. We’re just usually better at staying off the floor.
Usually.
And as our family’s Friday night policy clearly establishes, sometimes it’s Mom or Dad’s turn anyway.
Sometimes a small problem hits when your emotional reserves are already running on fumes.
That’s what happened with the Sprite.
The goal isn’t to tell my kids, “This doesn’t matter.”
It’s to help them figure out:
“How much does this matter, really, and what can we do next?”
That’s a very different lesson.
Because we’re starting to realize that feelings and problems aren’t always the same size.
You can have a huge feeling about a small problem.
You can be really disappointed about something that’s easily fixable.
You can be scared about a big problem and still figure out what to do next.
And sometimes you can simply say, “Well, that’s annoying,” and take the detour.
We Are Very Much Still Practicing
Please don’t read this and imagine my children calmly evaluating every inconvenience like tiny therapists.
They are not.
There are still freakouts.
There are still situations in which we ask, “Big problem or small problem?” and someone passionately insists that an objectively tiny inconvenience is, in fact, a five-alarm emergency.
They’re six and eight.
We’re working on it.
But I’m also beginning to hear them use the language themselves.
And I think that’s why we’ve kept the conversation going.
Because eventually, life is going to hand them actual big problems.
There will be heartbreaks and disappointments and scary phone calls and things that Mom and Dad can’t immediately fix.
There will also be canceled plans, spilled drinks, traffic jams, wrong turns, and approximately one billion other tiny annoyances that are simply part of being a human being.
I want them to be able to tell the difference.
I want them to know that a small problem can still feel disappointing.
I want them to know that a big feeling doesn’t automatically mean something is a big problem.
And I especially want them to know that when something really is a big problem, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an unsolvable one.
So we’ll keep asking the question.
Big problem, medium problem, or small problem?
And, when necessary, we’ll grab the paper towels.
Because there will definitely be more spilled Sprite.
And there will definitely be another Friday night.
