“My Child’s Short Fuse Lights My Short Fuse.”

My daughter shouts at me every day, and sometimes I shout right back.

ADHD gives me plenty of skills I can model for my kids, but good frustration tolerance isn’t one of them. I can make up silly songs on demand, but I’m rubbish at remaining unruffled when my 6-year-old’s temper flares.

My younger child is a lovable ball of brightness, kindness, and fun, but many things short her circuit and invoke her iron will, from unsolicited carrots to socks that won’t reach their requisite height.

She might well be neurodivergent herself. (We’re waiting in line for assessment.) But whatever the root of her proneness to grievance, it feels like we’re peas in a pod. My patience is apt to desert me the second she loses hers.

There are things I can give her directly to help her stay grounded and happy: empathy, boundaries, nutritious meals, plenty of nourishing cuddles, choice where possible, my fullest attention, the conscious uncoupling of me and my phone. But kids need a stable, consistent caregiver who they can watch and copy. If I can’t manage my own frustration, how will she ever handle hers?

Modeling Calm When Anger Strikes

I’ve been thinking a lot about how to model calm when it counts, and it strikes me that there are two things I need to nail if things are to be less shouty around here.

[Get This Free Download: 5 Ways to Improve Emotional Control at Home]

1. Meeting my own needs first

Most of what gives me balance is basic. Exercise, fresh air, and eating well. Walking up hills and through parks. Pilates and painting and learning new things. Time with no screens or voices to allow me to drift and dream.

They’re simple remedies, but my mental health slides if I fail to give them priority. Luckily, my partner has his own list too, so we tag-team to tick off as much as we can.

2. Keeping my cool in the moment

Much harder to master is the consistent deployment of effective strategies when my daughter digs her heels in.

When my child gets stuck in an emotional vortex, reason cannot reach her. I know how that feels myself and I’m often inclined to join her. But some recent therapy has helped me to see that I do have a choice in the moment. I can either hop aboard the resentment express and trot out a pointless monologue that spikes my cortisol and guarantees escalation. Or I can pause and make a conscious decision about how I’d like to proceed.

It’s not easy. The stress in my body is physical and real. I feel it in my chest and my neck. My ears ring and my heart races. But there are ways of letting it go. I can notice the tightness and relax the tension. My mind will often follow. I can focus on breathing more slowly and deeply (if I’m actually breathing at all). I can silently soothe myself in the tone of a grown-up who knows this will pass. When I pull it off, I’m not faking or in toxic denial. I just feel a lot more balanced and able to ride out the storm.

[Read: When Angry Kids Lash Out – How to Defuse Explosive Reactions]

Modeling Calm – Putting Techniques to the Test

I get a chance to deploy my new tactics in the art of non-reaction on a Saturday, when we fancy a walk in the woods. The little one won’t get dressed, of course. Weekends are for lying down, she declares, as she burrows under our duvet, tucking it in around her to secure her fortress against potential incursion.

We could be here a while, I think. Last week we aborted completely. I implore her to put on some clothes. She kicks off the covers and thrashes around, emitting a grating whine. My chest tightens, my heart rate quickens, and I want to launch into my lecture.

But I stop. I breathe. I remember that calm breeds calm and that staying centred will help us both. She performs a series of loud exhalations, but I say to her softly that we’re leaving. Voices do not get raised. I exit the room and in minutes she’s clothed and skipping out to the van.

She briefly objects to my offensive plan to take a jacket just in case. But I let it wash over me and it burns out fast. Off we go in peace.

The same trick works on Tuesday when I commit a transgression with celery and she CANNOT EAT THIS LASAGNA (she does) and again on Friday when it puts to bed a debate over whether jellybeans constitute breakfast (they don’t).

Modeling Calm, One Little Test at a Time

There are blips involving poached eggs and car seats. I’m tired and hormonal and late – and I yell. But part of my internal deal is that I’m kind to myself when I fail. Improvement is still improvement if it’s only some of the time.

I’m buoyed by how things are going. My girl is more flexible and she’s proud of herself when she lets things go. I’m feeling quite proud of me, too.

So maybe I can crack this. Maybe soon I’ll add “measured response to frustration” to the list of things I can pass to my children. It’s not as fun as singing ditties about teachers or toilets, but it’s arguably a more essential skill that will serve them well in life.

How to Be a Calm Parent: Next Steps

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