Long ago, after a day that started at 7:00 in the morning and didn’t end until 1:30 a.m. the next day, my daughter, Jodie, said, “Mom, it’s probably a real blessing that you have the grandkids so much. It gives you lots of material for your writing.” LOL

We were preparing to teach a room full of sixth graders how to make gingerbread houses out of graham crackers. It took over ten hours of preparation. It was a gift to the kids for a fundraiser they’d put together to help with my granddaughter Maggie’s therapy.

However, a big project doesn’t pause the rest of life. Maggie still needed her therapy session that day. The other grandchildren needed care. Meals had to be cooked. After a mentoring session with a family I was helping, Jodie and her kids arrived around noon. We began cutting crackers and bagging candy, while fielding questions, settling squabbles, keeping the littlest one out of the tree in the yard, getting drinks, nursing a baby, changing diapers, etc. You know how it goes.

After several hours of work, Jodie left to take Maggie to her therapy appointment. I kept going. When the therapy session ended, Jodie came back, and we worked together for a while longer, since she had an evening planned with friends, a plan made before the gingerbread project came up. When it was time, Jodie left for her party, and the grandchildren stayed the night with Don and me. He helped me cut cardboard bases, and once we’d stopped to feed everyone, he kept the kids occupied so I could keep working. At 6:00 p.m., I was still cutting crackers.

The Edge

By 8:00, our nursing granddaughter was at the end of her rope. She would crawl into the kitchen and pull herself up on the backs of my legs, then tumble down when I moved to catch her, which hurt her feelings every time, and she would cry. Our grandson was riding an adrenaline wave, wild the way kids get when it’s time for bed and they’re exhausted but refuse to admit it.

I kept watching the clock. I still had four or five hours of prep left. Seven batches of frosting to make. Eighty-seven pastry bags to fill. The stress was climbing. I picked up the baby once more, walked out of the kitchen, and felt an overwhelming urge to scream. Not at anyone. Just scream.

I hadn’t felt that in over fifteen years. It had been so long I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to have little kids all day long. Years earlier, I would have screamed, yelling at kids, my husband, whoever was nearby. But that night, I swallowed it down and did what I’d learned to do instead. I looked at those sweet, tired children, and I stopped.

Choosing Calm

I sat on the couch with baby Mary and gave her a bottle. I talked with little Jack, sat with Maggie, and let go of the feeling that time was running out and the world would fall apart if I didn’t move faster. You know what happened? Baby Mary calmed down. Jack calmed down. Maggie started laughing. I felt peace settle back into the room. Why hadn’t I done this earlier, before I needed to scream?

It was a long night. Jodie returned after her party, and we finished at 1:30 in the morning. It had been a challenging day, but we got through it. The children were happy for the most part. I remained calm, if frazzled, and nobody yelled.

When life feels as if it’s spinning, the answer isn’t to run from the chaos. It’s to sit down in the middle of it, hold whoever needs holding, listen, breathe, and let go of the fires you think you must put out right this second. All these years later, it’s still true, whether the chaos is a room full of tired grandchildren or a hard afternoon caring for my mom or ill husband. The setting changes. The practice doesn’t.

That night, all those years ago, was one more time I chose to stop instead of scream. I’m still choosing it now, one hard afternoon at a time.

There’s an idea I keep coming back to: no problem gets solved by the same thinking that created it. We have to see things with fresh eyes. That’s especially true when it comes to staying calm because staying calm doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when we’ve thought ahead about what we’ll do the next time we feel frustrated, pushed, disrespected, or worn thin.

Many of us, without a plan, default to raised voices. We want calmer homes, but when the moment comes, we go straight to frustration and yelling because that’s the response we’re used to. Staying calm comes from knowing, ahead of time, how to respond when things are out of control or don’t meet our expectations.

One Afternoon

I have a friend whose home I’ve spent a lot of time in over the years. I have never heard anyone yell. This family communicates. They don’t lose control.

One afternoon I saw what that looks like when it’s been taught to children too. Her two sons, nine and five, were playing a board game in the living room, close enough that I could hear every word. It was going well for a while, but the younger one couldn’t quite follow all the rules, and it was hard for him to win. He began to fuss and complain quietly.

His older brother patiently explained a few things, but he was only nine himself, and he wanted to win too. Finally, he said, “If you keep fussing and having a bad attitude, I can’t keep playing with you.” The fussing continued, quietly. A couple of minutes later, the older brother repeated himself, then calmly packed up the game. The younger boy’s face fell, but there was no yelling, no tears. About five minutes later, they were playing something else and having a good time.

I know how that sounds. Some of you are shaking your heads, thinking, “Those kids aren’t real, mine would never do that.” I was surprised myself. But here’s the thing: I can guess how those parents handle disagreements with each other, and with their children, just from observing the two boys. They have a plan. They have a system. And their children have absorbed it simply by living inside it.

There’s power in staying calm and communicating clearly. Children learn from what they see, not from what we tell them. You cannot teach one thing and live another. If there’s conflict in your home, if you find yourself losing control, and your children doing the same, the answer starts with mastering yourself first.

Tuesday Morning

Such an easy thing to say, I know. Staying calm isn’t only about how we respond in the moment, as those two boys did. It’s also about the expectations we carry into a moment before it even starts. I experienced that lesson again this week.

I used to be a rager. It took having my eyes opened, realizing I needed to control myself, not blaming others, and having a plan to move forward. It has taken several decades of practicing to get where I am now, and I still have work to do.

At 7:30 on Tuesday morning this week, I was on my knees asking forgiveness for being abrupt with my mom. I felt embarrassed because I often ask forgiveness for the same thing. Calm has not been an easy lesson for me. But I have made progress. I am better. I am kinder. And I keep trying when I goof up.

Mom sometimes takes her Depends off at night, which leaves a mess on her nightgown and sheets. Tuesday morning it happened again, and I lost my patience getting her up.

After my prayer, some thoughts came to me. I was reminded that I wet the bed until I was twelve, and that the scoldings I got for it never helped; they just made me feel bad. I also thought of my daughter Jodie, who has a special-needs daughter in diapers and changes her sheets many times a week. Jodie doesn’t expect anything different; it is what it is, and she handles it. I realized my expectation was the problem. I kept expecting Mom to stop this behavior if I scolded her, when the truth is, her dementia isn’t going away, and this may continue for as long as she’s here. Another thought I had was simple: change the expectation from “this has to stop” to “some mornings there will be a mess.” Therapists sometimes call this reframing, catching the thought before it becomes the reaction. It works for Jodie. It will work for me.

Wow. One more step in a lifelong process of learning to be calm. My embarrassment evaporated into gratitude. I look forward to putting this new expectation into practice.

I shared the boys’ story because it’s a beautiful example of what can happen when we work on calm, so that our family and others can see the work we’re doing, even when we aren’t perfect. So don’t be discouraged if you or your children aren’t there yet. These boys have been practicing the example their parents gave. We need to continue practicing too. Perfection isn’t what we’re aiming for; progress is.

For me, that plan now sounds like this: if I feel my patience slipping with Mom, I stop and ask myself what story I’m telling myself in that moment.

That’s the plan, the system, the thing I can lean on, so I can help everyone around me build one too.