«There are moments when I've had all I can take. I'm at my wit's end. I can't stand my older son anymore! His flaws, his helplessness, his mistakes, his clumsiness—it all gets to me. A kind word from him irritates me; even his gestures of affection annoy me. This evening, while my wife was washing dishes, he came over to hug me with his big smile and simple joy. I barely held back the urge to push him away.
— A Father
There is a moment in every parent's life that cuts to the bone. It's the moment when we give in to our nerves, our anger, our harsh words and violent gestures—even the temptation to reject our own child. How we punish ourselves for it afterward.
Surely there's a difference between passing irritation and chronic exasperation.
The child who dawdles instead of getting dressed, who goes silent, who loses his third pair of gloves, who drops everything, who squirms away from your hand on the street—he's maddening. With our disabled children or those struggling in other ways, every single task takes twice as long and twice as much effort. It's twice as nerve-wracking. If we lose our temper a little, if we raise our voice, there's no reason to feel guilty. That reaction is human, and it releases the tension building inside us.
But if we find ourselves using truly harsh measures, only by apologizing to the child afterward can we restore an honest and warm relationship. "I'm sorry. I was too on edge. But it matters to me that you pay attention to what I'm asking you."
If nervousness takes hold too often, we need to ask ourselves:
Have we made our rules and warnings clear?
(Parents had forbidden Luke from watching television alone. They found him one morning sitting in front of the screen, seemingly unaware he had disobeyed.)
Have we given him enough time to accomplish what we expect?
(It makes no sense to scold him for being late to school if we only wake him fifteen minutes before we need to leave.)
Are we getting the rest we need to keep our own nerves steady?
I know—sometimes it seems almost absurd to tell a mother to rest. But we're not made of iron. During a sharing circle about forgiveness, someone once asked me, "Do you have enemies?" I answered, "I have one enemy: exhaustion."
When you realize you cannot go on, you must arrange shifts and find someone to take your place. Fathers first, if possible. Ask godparents, aunts, grandmothers, friends, members of Faith and Light. Many families are isolated and fear they'll be a burden asking for help. But when you entrust someone with your "difficult child"—who will almost certainly be less difficult away from home—you give them the chance to truly know your child and to give their best.
Many people, even those close to us, don't know how to help. Find your courage: ask.
Sometimes exasperation becomes chronic—a real rejection of the child itself. Everything becomes an excuse for anger. We feel attacked by the smallest mistake (and with our children, mistakes are constant), but also by a small gesture of affection. Seeing this clearly isn't always easy.
One day, as I was becoming violently frustrated by my son's struggle to grasp some simple concepts, I suddenly understood something obvious: "But it's not his fault." From that moment on, I can't say I never got frustrated again. But everything changed.
Yes, our children are innocent. I don't mean they lack a sense of right and wrong—most of them have it. But they are innocent of being who they are. They are not responsible for the frustrated, contested situation that swirls around them. Only we parents can break through that deadlock.
Some parents know they are being unjust to their children but cannot find a way out.
I knew a woman with two handicapped children. She cared for her firstborn with remarkable patience and intelligence. Her second son she could not bear. She knew it. We talked about it often. So she made a point of spending a few hours every week alone with that child. She took him to the cinema, to McDonald's, to Mass.
After a few months, I saw her chronic irritation begin to ease.
A grandmother struggled deeply to accept her disabled granddaughter, who was overly clingy and demanding. One day, during prayer, she suddenly saw her own attitude for what it was—profoundly unjust toward the child.
The truth sets us free.
From that day forward, she begged the Lord each day to change her heart of stone into a heart of flesh, because she could not do it alone. Her prayer was answered. Years later, when the girl became a woman, she would always miss the grandmother who had loved her so deeply.
Seeing your situation clearly doesn't automatically bring calm and serenity to a family. But it is surely the beginning of a path that leads toward peace of heart.
— S. Meynis de Paulin (Ombre e Luci, no. 124)