Preventing frustration

I've never yet met a parent who welcomed frustration - not theirs, and not their child's or teen's.

In fact, most of us would rather do whatever it takes to prevent our kids from experiencing frustration.
 
And why is that? Because we're uncomfortable with others' frustration, whether it be crying, pleading, sulking, threatening, or tantrums.

And let's be clear: What we do in those moments we do for ourselves. It's our best attempt to neutralize someone else's pain so we can feel better. It's our best attempt to get rid of our own discomfort.

There seem to be two standard ways of dealing with frustration:

• Trying to cheer them up - perhaps by minimizing how bad it is or by distracting them with something more pleasant.

• Pointing out how this is their fault and advising them to do something differently next time.

When we say, "No," we don't just want them to respect that. We want them to be happy about it - or at least okay with it. And when they're not, we may use a variety of strategies to "help" them be okay with it - criticizing, blaming, cajoling, lecturing, holding out false hope, threatening, punishing.

What we haven't been taught is the importance of frustration in our children's development:

Frustration helps our kids (and likely us) develop resilience and adaptability.

In his book Hold Onto Your Kids, Gordon Neufeld spends some time discussing the value of frustration and teaching a better, more useful way to deal with it.

He talks about the Wall of Futility - that point when a person (adult or child) realizes that reality is what it is and that it can't be changed. Time has run out. Parents have divorced. The family has moved. Poor choices were made. People got hurt. People died. No is no.

And he defines the parent's role this way:

Parents must be the agents of frustration and the angels of comfort.

So what does that mean? It means being clear with reality, not whitewashing it to make it more palatable. Not mean; just clear.

And then, when the child hit the Wall of Futility, to be the angel of comfort, to let them find their tears and grieve the loss of whatever it is. For some, you can wrap your arms around them and just hold them. For others, you may be able to sit with them. For others, you may have to let them go off on their own for a bit, secure in the knowledge that you'll be there when they resurface.

The benefit to them of being allowed to hit the wall of futility is that, once they've found their tears and grieved, they're ready to move on without any coaxing from you.

I had a profound experience with this a couple of years ago when I had a chance to practice what I was learning.

The whole family was visiting for the weekend (there were 17 of us here), and 7 of the 8 children had gone to watch a movie with friends. Aidyn, aged 7, had opted to stay behind and play video games.

I'd been out for a bit, and when I got back Chloe was beside herself. At some point after all the other children had left, Aidyn decided he should have gone, too. From what I understood, she tried to cheer him up, to no avail, and had finally sent him to bed. She was distraught and he was crying.

Just with that Aidyn walked in the room, face tear stained. I gathered him up wordlessly, carried him to the living room, and sat with him in the rocking chair. I offered nothing. I just held him and rocked him. Our conversation went something like this:

"I really wanted to go to Donny and Michelle's!"

"I know you did."

"I really wanted to watch a movie with the kids!"

"I know you did."

"I should have gone with them!"

"I know."

"But nobody would drive me!"

"I know."

And then, after a pause, "This was my own fault. I could have gone, but I decided to stay here."

"Aah." Pause. "So what would you do next time?"

"I'd go with them."

"Aah."

He heaved a big sigh, stopped crying, and said, "I'm okay now." And he was. And I was amazed how easy it had been. But what surprised me most was his comment as he was leaving the next day. He said good-bye and gave me a hug, then said, with great sincerity, "And thank you for cheering me up last night." I said, "You're welcome!" But what I might have said was, "Oh, honey, you did that yourself!" - because he did.