A couple of months ago, I made my oldest son cry. Not just a few tears, but full on balling as if he’d been told his mom had died. It started in the car after I picked him up from tennis practice. I arrived a little early so I could watch, and let’s just say I expected more from him. I found myself getting frustrated with his effort and was convinced he wasn’t trying his hardest, not even close.
As we walked back to the car I peppered him with questions. Why wasn’t he running faster, swinging harder, more focused? I guess I wasn’t satisfied with his answers because I kept at it once we got in the car. Eventually I snapped, my frustration boiling over into anger, and I started saying all kinds of things he didn’t deserve. The next thing I knew he was crying harder than I’d ever seen him cry before.
I rarely yell at my sons. They’re both great kids, well behaved and smart. So I can only imagine my anger must have caught my son totally off guard, like I was no longer his loving dad that he was always used to and had suddenly become some kind of monster.