Hey, it's Matt.

I stood in my backyard holding a leaf blower and garden hose, preparing to unleash a storm on the shelter my eight-year-old son had just built.

I knew it wouldn't survive.

But I was more worried about his reaction. Would he get angry? Lose confidence? Resent me for letting him fail?

I think I know where that fear came from.

In second grade, I thought I was the smartest kid in class. My mom always told me how smart I was, and I believed her.

Then Mrs. Jones handed out a word search.

I was determined to finish first, to be the best.

Twenty minutes later, I was halfway done when another student turned in his paper.

Then another. And another.

By the time I finished, half the class had beaten me.

I was devastated. I'd confused being smart with being better than everyone else. And suddenly, I wasn't.

Nearly forty years later, I was afraid my son might experience that same feeling.

I'd given him a tarp, paracord, two stakes, and ten minutes to build a shelter.

He tied his rope to a flimsy branch and a plastic lawn chair.

I knew exactly what was wrong, but kept my mouth shut.

When the timer sounded, he proudly showed me his creation.

Then came the storm.

The chair tipped. The tarp collapsed. Water sprayed everywhere.

I waited for the tears.

Instead, he laughed.

When it was over, he asked, "Dad, how do you think I could improve that?"

I was flabbergasted.

He hadn't interpreted failure as evidence that he wasn't capable. He saw a problem he could solve.

I taught him a taut-line hitch and showed him stronger anchors.

Ten minutes later, his shelter survived the storm.

Researcher Manu Kapur calls this productive failure: struggling with a problem before receiving instruction can deepen understanding.

My son experienced the problem before learning the solution.

And he taught me something too.

Failure doesn't have to define us. Sometimes it's just a tarp falling off a rope.