“But, Mom, this means I can’t go! It’s impossible!” wails Annemarie, tears coursing down her cheeks.
Five minutes ago, she was all smiles as we sat at the kitchen table to “crunch numbers” for the school-sponsored 10-day trip to Italy. As we calculated the number of hours she’d have to work to earn enough money to pay for the trip, though, her face fell, her eyes reddened, and she reached for the Kleenex.
Pain and disappointment can be effective teachers, I remind myself.
Don’t cave. No matter how badly you want to bail her out–for your sake as well as hers!–don’t rescue her. These are natural consequences; this kind of pain and disappointment is the okay kind.
“Chickie,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and upbeat, “it is possible for you to earn the money. You’ll have to commit to working eight hours a day for all eight weeks of your summer break.”
“But I don’t want to!” she sobs back, throwing up her hands in despair. “I’ve been looking forward to having this summer off! It’s been such a crazy school year; I deserve a break! I’ve worked so hard. I want time for myself!”
How I hate seeing her tears!
I start to rationalize: She’s right; it has been a rough school year. I could offer to go half-way on the trip with her. That way she’d only have to work half as much. Surely that would make her feel better. I don’t want to see her hopes crushed. The Italy trip is such a great opportunity for her . . .
Pain and disappointment can be effective teachers.
What vital lessons will I deprive her of learning if I step in to ease the current pain and disappointment? This is a great opportunity to learn how badly she actually wants the trip or if she’s just been enjoying the fantasy.
Ten years ago, when I first heard a parenting expert declare that “pain and disappointment can be effective teachers,” my first reaction was deep rebellion:
No! I’ve spent my entire parenting life trying to protect my kids from pain and disappointment!
My own childhood included a number of instances of totally inappropriate pain and disappointment–emotional abandonment, verbal battering, physical neglect, and sexual violation–that caused me to define all pain and disappointment as harmful.
I had to realize that in my zeal to protect my children from the inappropriate kinds of pain and disappointment I’d experienced as a child, I had aimed to protect them from all pain and disappointment. As a result, I was raising kids who were accustomed to being rescued, even from the normal process of natural consequences. Learning to tell myself this kind of pain and disappointment is the okay kind has been a difficult but vital part of my growth as a parent.
As I’ve learned to “trust the process,” Psalm 62:8 has taken on new meaning: “Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.”
I steal myself and quietly state, “Honey, it looks like you’ve got two very different choices in front of you–a forced alternative. You can either work all summer and go on the Italy trip in October or you can take the summer off and not go on the trip. I don’t know which choice is right for you; only you can decide that. I’ll support you either way.”
“But . . . but . . . “ she cries, her volume notching up to a whole new level, “it’s not fair! You said I could go! I’ve told everyone I’m going! It’s not fair!”
Ouch! I wince. The you’re-letting-me-down and it’s-not-fair defenses; both at once. I want out of this conversation. It’s more intense than I want to deal with. What’s the fastest way out? If we call Nana and Papa, they’d probably be willing to help . . .
Pain and disappointment can be effective teachers.
What will she learn if a bit of dramatics is all it takes to “earn” a trip to Italy? What are you modeling for her if you cop out so quickly? Don’t rescue her. This kind of pain and disappointment is the okay kind.
I look my daughter squarely in the eye and say, as kindly but firmly as possible, “Unfair? It would be ‘unfair’ if we’d misled you. But when we said you could go, we also said ‘as long as you earn the money for the trip.’ The numbers you’ve just calculated aren’t unfair . . . just really, really, really disappointing.”
Nodding dumbly, Annemarie buries her face in her arms. Still fighting the Let-me-make-it-all-better urge, I lean over to hug her. She stiffens–still mad–then relaxes, glad for comfort.
Trust in Him at all times, daughters. Together, we are learning that some kinds of pain and disappointment are effective teachers. Pour out our hearts to Him, for He is our refuge. We are learning to trust and find refuge in God.
Together.
How do you find yourself responding to the idea that “pain and disappointment can be effective teachers”?
What life lesson are you learning together with your child(ren)?
When do your children see you trusting and taking refuge in God?
In what ways has your parenting journey been a catalyst for spiritual growth?
By: Cheri Gregory
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