My mother never hit me. My father once poured tea on my head when I refused to taste the honey he brought me, but he never laid his hand on me either. And now, after a year of being a parent, I learned to appreciate my folk’s patience.
Toddlers are impossible, they say, but you have no idea unless you live with a toddler. The real challenge of being a parent is to keep that promise you gave to yourself about respect, empathy, and understanding. When a child throws a temper tantrum, it’s easy to freeze or lose control and yell back. The beautiful thoughts about respectful parenting, care, and attention melt in the fire of the child’s fury that seems to be directed toward you.
When my daughter doesn’t stop crying, I get the feeling that she is yelling at me, that she is disappointed, that I’m a bad father. And even though I know it’s not true, the feeling stays with me and stands between my child and me. I’ve always envied women for the special bond mothers get to have with their kids, and I cried more than once over the fact that I will never be a mother. And whenever I feel that my daughter cries because she wants her mommy, anger, and desperation choke me. And I think that no matter what I do, she will never love me and need me as much as her mom.
I’ve tried a lot of techniques to stop my anger. The last thing I want to do is to scare my child, put a wall of fear and anxiety between us, and turn into a monster that won’t let her feel those big emotions and be herself. Breathing exercises can be good, but I’d need to do them 24/7 since my emotions work at lightning speed, and when I feel it’s a good time for deep breaths, it’s already too late. Examination and reflection upon my anger revealed its roots, and I had a lot of intellectual insights into my anxiety and fears that give birth to fury. But these cognitive exercises had little effect on my visceral experience. I think my daughter inherited my temper, and if I can’t help us both, we will clash horribly as our stubborn characters fight for dominance.
If my little girl doesn’t want to sleep, she is a tiny relentless soldier. She will fight her closing eyes, swallow jaw-breaking yawns, fuss in my arms, jerk her hands and legs to keep herself awake. I respect her strengths and devotion, I’m proud of her perseverance and stubbornness. I see a person in front of me. She is a different and separate individual who magically possesses some features of her mom and some of mine but combines them in her own unique way: pure beauty and joy. And I want to carry those feelings into the situations where I can’t stand her cries, and my blood starts boiling, and I feel the monster being born out of me. If I could whisper in the ear of that monster the words of love, respect, and tenderness I have for my child, the beast would deflate like a burst balloon.
The help came unexpectedly. There is a beautiful book Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg. Inside this gorgeous exploration of language that leads us away from life, I have found thoughts and advice that help me stay connected to my daughter even during the most challenging times. Rosenberg explains that there are four basic ways that we can react to words and actions: to blame ourselves, blame others, pay attention to our needs, or to pay attention to the needs of others. Then he suggests that we get angry when we choose the second path and blame others, so our anger is a way to punish the other. He also says that when we concentrate on our needs or the needs of others, the anger disappears. And I agree with him.
Empathy is all about the other person’s feelings. Still, ultimately, it’s all about the other person’s needs since feeling communicates an unmet need. When I started to pay attention to what my daughter feels and wants when she cries, I felt the anger going away. I try to start sentences with words like “I see you’re upset that we need to go to bed now.” or “You wanted to play more, and I don’t let you.” And most times, she responds to that understanding as if she needed me to validate her feelings and explain things and emotions she can’t decipher yet. She can calm down a little or nod with her curly blonde head. That moment of connection can give us both much-needed pause to regroup and try another iteration of communication. I can have a chance to explain to her why she needs to sleep. She can have an opportunity to gesture to me, for example, that her teeth hurt. Then we can agree on some Ibuprofen before bed.
I’m a very patient man. I’m proud that I can resolve conflicts with words instead of fists. I can stay calm and attentive during a heated argument, and I can endure and understand many things that life and people throw at me. But my daughter gets to me more than any person I’ve ever met. She can turn me into a raging bull in a matter of seconds, and I don’t know why. Maybe she means too much to me, or perhaps I’m a different person when we’re alone. It doesn’t matter. I can turn my attention to my need to be a good father and calm her down without my wife’s help. I know it tears her heart, but she loves me enough to give me space and doesn’t snatch a child from my hands after two seconds of crying. I can turn my attention to my daughter’s need to be heard. Need to express her emotions and thoughts, being upset and angry, and feeling all those big things that are far too large for such a tiny creature.