I used to think staying calm with my children was a skill I’d eventually master and move past, something I’d graduate from once they were grown. I know better now. Right now, I’m caring for my 96-year-old mother, who has dementia, and I’m finding myself back in the same classroom I thought I’d left decades ago.
That’s really what this series of five articles is about. Not a formula, not a finished skill, but a practice, one that shows up again and again across a lifetime, in different seasons, with different people, in ways we don’t always see coming.
The stories in this series are from long ago, mostly from the years when my children were small, or my grandchildren were underfoot. But I keep coming back to them, because the lessons in them are just as true today as they were then. I hope these stories feel less like advice from someone who’s arrived, and more like company from someone still on the road with you.
I’m in a new season of practicing calm. My mom is 96 and living with dementia, and some days caring for her tests every ounce of patience I thought I’d built up over the years. I lose it occasionally. I hear my voice get sharp, or I feel that same old flash of frustration rise, and I have to stop and remind myself of something I learned a long time ago, back when my own children were small.
Staying calm isn’t a skill you master once and keep forever. It’s a practice. And you never know when life will hand you a new season that puts you right back in the classroom. I was reminded of that recently when I came across an old story from years ago, back when my grandchildren were small, and I was watching them for the day. It’s a good reminder that the practice never really ends, and that’s okay. Enjoy. : )
I was sitting at the table watching Mary today. She had a small bowl of popcorn and was happily eating. Every bite or so, she would look up and give me a coy little smile. I would smile back and eat a piece of my popcorn. After several bites and coy smiles, Mary got up, toddled over to me, and lifted her face for a kiss. I gave her one, and she went back to the popcorn, took another bite, gave me that same shy smile, and I returned it. Then she got up again, came over to me, and lifted her face for another kiss. We repeated this a few times.
20 Minutes Earlier
What made this peaceful, joyous moment so remarkable was what had happened just 20 minutes earlier.
In the kitchen was a large bucket of thick honey, straight from my own bees, with no water in it, so it was very sticky. I noticed that bucket the day before and thought, “Hmm, that lid isn’t on very tight.” Then, as busy people do, I went on my way and didn’t do anything about it.
Today my grandchildren came to spend the whole day. I was prepared with crafts and fun, and all was going to be great. But I was running behind, which meant we were late eating breakfast and getting dressed. It was after 11:00 when I was tying the last shoelace. Just then, Mary came into the living room dripping honey from head to foot.
I let out a shriek, grabbed her, and ran for the tub, clothes and all. I fussed the whole way. “Mary, what did you do? Why were you in the kitchen? Look at this mess!” All the things you’d expect me to say.
As I stripped her clothes off and washed away the very thick honey, I made myself think about what was happening. I had a real mess in the kitchen, I was sure. This was my last set of clothes for Mary, and she hadn’t even been dressed for ten minutes. I was angry, and honestly, it was my own fault for not securing that lid.
I forced myself to calm down and really look at her. She was perfectly happy being doused in warm water, and any sense of trouble had already evaporated into the joy of the bath. She’s just a baby, really, only 16 months old. She’s interested in everything, and I mean everything. I hadn’t secured the perimeter, so to speak, and now I had a mess to clean up.
More than that, I realized that damaging this precious relationship over her childish need to explore, and my own oversight, would be a terrible trade. So, I stopped fussing. I washed her off, kissed her as I dried her, and steeled myself to go face the kitchen. It really was a mess.
A couple of days ago, I was talking with a mom about staying calm. She told me she’d decided to practice it, and that it was making a real difference. She said the more she practiced, the better she got at it. Amen to that.
Staying calm, not losing your temper, being present, seeing a child as a person with needs instead of a problem to solve – these are all practiced skills. The more we practice, the better we get. That’s what I had to do that day: practice some more.
What I’ve Learned
I’m imperfect at this, just like most of you. I felt angry first. I fussed. But then I made myself stop and choose better. A few things I’ve learned along the way:
- The sweetness of family life comes through when we stay as calm and kind with our children as we can manage.
- Children aren’t small adults. They don’t think like we do or behave as we do, and that means they’ll end up in trouble often as they grow and learn.
- Living with children means living with the possibility of mess, frustration, and moments that test our patience. But damaging a relationship over a mess is never worth it.
- Staying calm takes practice, practice, and more practice, and we won’t be perfect at it. The better we get at it, though, the better we feel about ourselves, and it tends to spill over into the rest of our lives too.
A friend of mine, a mom with several young children, told me recently that her kids’ favorite thing to do is play dress-up. They want to do it all day long, even the boys. Of course, it makes a glorious mess. As we visited, she asked me about the value of this interest she was seeing in her kids, and it opened up a wonderful conversation.
My sister Cindy has a job caring for a man with dementia. As I know well, this can be an overwhelming and consuming responsibility. Here was her text to me:
When you’re engaged in a project, what matters to you? For many adults,
When I moved from Montana to Utah in my late 50s, something stopped me in my tracks – the realization that