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patience

How wearing 5 bands on your wrist can remind you to be a better parent.

Toddlers, am I right?

Photo by George Marks/Retrofile/Getty Images.

We love them, and they're adorable, but oh boy are they a handful.

Supposedly, kids start to rapidly develop empathy somewhere around their second birthday. But let's be real: They're still learning. Most of the time, they're self-centered, extremely emotional, and prone to outbursts.

Any parent who claims they've never lost their cool around a screaming child isn't being totally honest.

But there's a clever "parenting hack" making its way around the internet that's supposed to help stressed-out parents stay calm under pressure.

Or, at least, help them cool down following a major temper tantrum from their darling angel.

It's called the "hair tie trick," or "rubber band trick," pioneered by parenting blogger Kelly at The (Reformed) Idealist Mom.

Sick and tired of constantly being angry with her young daughter, she got the idea to keep track of every time she snapped, yelled, or lashed out with hair ties or rubber bands around her wrist.

Every time she felt like she lost her temper, she moved one hair band to the other arm.

In order to "earn it back," she had to sit down and create a few positive moments with her daughter: reading a book together, dancing, singing a song.

The goal is to keep as many bands as possible on the original wrist.

If you're skeptical, you're not the only one. But moms and dads sharing this trick like crazy online say it works.

This post about the chill-out tactic from one mom, Shauna Harvey, recently went viral.

Today, I tried something new.Blogger here----> https://idealistmom.com/angry-mother/Something that required me to...
Posted by Shauna Harvey on Tuesday, May 16, 2017

The response has been huge, with thousands of parents sharing with other parents in need.

We all want to be the perfect mom or the perfect dad — the one who always has everything under control and can soothe a crying child while simultaneously whipping up an organic, Instagram-worthy dinner, all with a beaming smile.

But the truth is parenting is rarely that effortless. And worse, when the stress does get the better of us, it can be really harmful for both us and our relationship with our kids.

The hair tie trick may seem cheesy, but anything that reminds us to slow down, breathe, and at least try to enjoy quality time with our kids is certainly worth a shot.

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When my daughter Emma was born, I pretty much kissed my list of dream vacations goodbye.

Traveling with kids at all, even kids without special needs, is usually pretty different from a non-kid vacation.

Ah, good times. GIF via "The Hangover."

But Emma, who is now 6, has autism spectrum disorder. So traveling to even local places like the grocery store can be tough for her.

Let me be Blunt Mom for a moment: There was a long stretch of time when I would easily burst into tears from the sheer frustration of not being able to go anywhere because of the inevitable resulting sensory-induced tantrums (hers) and tsk-tsk-judging-you stares (everyone's, it felt like). They were an emotional traveling travel tax that was just too high to pay.

A trip to a store for Emma sometimes means "I claw your face and scream until we. GO. HOME." All photos courtesy of Tana Totsch-Kimsey.

But I have another daughter, one who is not autistic and is already earmarking her own "must-see" places.

So when 11-year-old adventurer Julia suggested that we explore the national landmarks and U.S. historical sites of Washington, D.C., as a family (mostly so we can imagine that we are Nic Cage about to crack centuries-old codes and uncover fabulous treasures right under everyone's noses), I didn't want to say no. Plus, this seemed like a slightly more doable plan than her desperate insistence for us to visit the Taj Mahal.

But I was still left with this thought: How can I even do this?

Traveling places with a child with autism or other conditions is daunting.

I've pushed our family to do it before because — honestly — you just can't stay home all the time. A few adventures have gone unexpectedly well. But there were also times I crawled home, wanting to hide from the world for the rest of forever.

The highs and lows are seriously real. GIF via "Tangled."

In this case, I said yes. Why not? And it wasn't easy, but it was worth it.

So I have some not-so-sage advice to all the parents out there: Just do it. You might be surprised with your own capabilities and the amazing human nature of other people.

Here are six things this most recent trip with a daughter with autism in tow revealed to me:

1. Go ahead and panic.

I would say don't panic, but that would feel pat to me. I have anxiety, and I know it doesn't just turn off. And on Emma's worst days, planning a trip across town can fluster me enough to not go.

But there are always going to be reasons to not go, so I panicked. Then I said yes to this trip. What if she gags herself the entire 12-hour car ride? What if she gets away and dashes like a wildcat into the White House China Room and breaks the Wilsons' dining set (obviously the prettiest) and the Secret Service swoops in and...

Well, this is what Emma really thought of the presidential plates:

Maybe all those things you fear will happen. Maybe they won't. Emma actually did break down the first night at the hotel, insisting at top volume, "We go? Car?" while throwing all the things in the room. That night, I found I had more patience than I thought. And all the subsequent nights? The bedtime tantrums tapered, and I learned Emma has a secret power to adapt despite all evidence to the contrary. Surprising!

Whatever happens, you and your kid will figure it out. At least that's what I repeat to myself to get us out the door.

2. Some people leave the judgy-ness and worry at home, and they look happy.

Moment of honesty: I used to be one of those people who judged those other people using child leashes.

The fancy term for what some kids with autism and other developmental issues do is "elopement," and Emma "elopes" with the mystical powers of Houdini. I no longer begrudge anyone using any type of invention that gets you and your child out in the world.

GIF via "Modern Family."

I don't use a leash, but I do have a stroller designed for older kids. It deters Emma in her sport of running off, and more importantly, the hugging-type security of it keeps her calm when I'm breaking her routines. I totally indulge in using it when we go to overstimulation-filled places for her sanity and mine.

And yet — I'm still usually pretty embarrassed about it. More than one parent-type person has baldly said to me, "She's a bit big for that, hm?"

Some days, this gets to me. On this trip in particular, I was holding in a snappy comeback to one such comment when I noticed things: A family was helping a preteen girl in a back brace move around the museum we were at; an older man on a scooter had a foldable wagon attached toting a seemingly unwell but happy toddler; there was even a boy in a setup kind of like Emma's.

Lots of parents are out there helping their kids find a way to do things even if it's unusual, and that is a delightful thing to see — delightful enough to quiet the doubts and the haters. For me, anyway.

3. I'm actually a little bit glad my kid pulled off that person's headscarf.

Emma is not a "typical" kid when it comes to sensory issues — if there is such a thing as typical. In a crowd, she doesn't shy away from people or objects; instead, she wants to engage with everything and everyone.

This leads to so many super-awkward moments, and I spend a fair amount of time when I'm places with Emma apologizing for all kinds of inappropriate invasions of space. Despite many years of doing this, I still feel a pit of fear and brace myself, expecting a reprimand for not being able to control my kid.

But you know what? (Lean in close: This is a life-changing secret.)

Most people are kind. Actually, really, and truly kind. And understanding.

Obviously I try to keep Emma from grabbing strangers. But when the need to reach out to people overcomes her, the typical response is a smile, a chuckle, a "That's OK!" or — the best — the beginning of a conversation.

On this trip, Emma spotted a woman with a Tiffany blue-and-gold-trimmed head covering and head-to-toe outfit. Apparently, she instantly felt the urge to not only see what the material felt like but also to give it a good yank — nearly pulling the woman down backward — and I was deeply mortified, certain this entire family was going to see the gesture as a personal attack.

I grasped the woman's arm, apologizing profusely, but she was laughing. She addressed Emma with a "Well, hello there!" and assured me she also had curious kids who'd done equally awkward things before. We bonded over common parenting ground. We had a lovely chat — during which I blurted that I had been admiring her outfit and was actually glad for the chance to tell her so — and we exchanged knowing-parent chuckles whenever we crossed paths the rest of the day.

**4. Very, very few people say no to a hug.**

Emma sometimes gets so enamored when people interact with her that she asks for hugs and gives them with a lot of enthusiasm. It's stressful parenting a child who has zero sense of stranger danger, but it's also a delightful surprise that so many people go in for the hug.

One Smithsonian staffer even calmed my over-apologizing by saying, "Why wouldn't you want to hug a happy little thing like that?" and gave her squeezes until the elevator buzzed for the doors being open too long. A lot of people even told me that the random hug made their day so much better.

5. Sometimes you have to retrieve a toy from a dinosaur exhibit.

With a museum docent standing right there. And a sign that says "do not lean over railing" — much less hoist your mom body over it. While your kid is mourning said toy at the top of her lungs.

But you just do it (and maybe go sit alone on a bench with your frustration and tears for a bit after).

There it goes again.

I'd love to say this trip was all successes — but that's not reality.

Amid the joyful parts, there were plenty of "this just sucks" moments. Emma may or may not have broken (er, lightly damaged) a cataloged artifact at the Natural History Museum. She disliked touring the Senate chambers so much that she gagged and spewed on the floor, and the guide was actually not all that nice or understanding about it. Anytime things were going too smoothly, she would take off her shoes and throw them hard and far.

But I also didn't die of embarrassment or give up and go home. I did find myself wondering if pushing Emma to her limits just so our family could visit some places and see some things was really even worth it. Was any of it making an impression with her at all? It surprised me to think that way — but then, no person can be expected to always see the sunny side.

6. But sometimes, like Emma, we can all soar among the stars.

I agonized over our trip to the National Air and Space Museum. It was expensive, but my inner space geek really wanted to see the IMAX film about dark matter (Neil deGrasse Tyson? Yes, please!). My oldest daughter wanted to go. My husband was indifferent. And then: Emma. Expecting her to sit quietly through 40 minutes of some pretty hefty and abstract concepts seemed crazy.

But ultimately, I just went for it.

Neil deGrasse Tyson dropping some inspiration, like he does.

The sensory experience of a domed-screen, surround-sound theater was a bit overwhelming for Emma at first. I retrieved thrown items and insisted on "quiet voice" for several moments, wondering if I should bail before people started complaining.

But after a few minutes, I was absorbed in the film — and then I noticed that Emma was, too. She reached up to try to touch the dark speckled screen and asked me, "Star?"

Kids can be excellent tour guides through life.

When you have a kid whose needs demand big pieces of your attention, it can be easy to let that start to structure — and limit — your own life and the lives of people closest to you. I mean, being a sibling to a kid with autism or other disorders? It's gotta be a tough gig, too.

But Julia and her imaginative, ambitious nature remind me daily to do things because you want to do them. She — like Emma — is less concerned with how it will all turn out or what other people will think. There's an adventure in just doing the thing, whatever happens.

And all the other people out there? They're part of the adventure too. The kindness, inventiveness, and empathy of human nature were perhaps the most beautiful things I discovered on this trip.

I hope Julia and Emma both keep that "Why not?" spirit for many years. I hope they can trust that human nature is not nearly as cynical as it first appears. And I hope, most importantly, that their (or my) stockpiled must-see lists don't get dusty again.

10 days before my wedding, my brother lost his fight with pediatric bone cancer.

It was my wedding day.

I stood outside the doors to the chapel. My heart was racing, and I felt my eyes fill up with tears.

I can’t do this.

Before I could turn and run, the doors flung open. I was caught off guard as 80 expectant faces turned to look at me. I scanned the crowd. I saw my family and friends. I saw my dad and stepfather waiting in front of the altar to give me away. But I was going to have to walk down the aisle alone, and that was not how it was supposed to be.

I don’t know how long I paused there. I felt like I couldn’t move.

Then my eyes found my future husband, Joe. And right next to him, I saw a single candle burning on a tall candelabra. Gulp. I looked back at Joe and decided that if I could make it down the aisle to him, I’d be OK.

I felt as if my knees might buckle, but somehow I began walking. It was surreal. I felt as if I were floating, but I eventually made it down the aisle.

Me and my husband-to-be on my wedding day. All photos from the author and used with permission.

18 months earlier, my 16-year-old brother was diagnosed with a rare pediatric bone cancer.

The diagnosis was grim. The prognosis was not good. He was quick to rally. He was going to be fine. He was going to live his life. He was still planning a future. He packed a lot of living in a short time.

10 days before my wedding, he lost his fight.

Now, I look back and I don’t know how my family and I made it through both a funeral and a wedding in such a short span of time, but we did. There would be no postponing of the wedding as I’d suggested. Every single member of my family told me in no uncertain terms that my brother would never want me to put it off. He always said he "didn’t have time for cancer." He didn’t let it stop him from doing the things he wanted to do, and he would be highly pissed if I let cancer stop my wedding.

So, even though we were still in a state of shock, we had a wedding. There were tributes to my brother throughout the wedding, including the single candle that stood where he was supposed to stand as a groomsman. We read a beautiful poem in his memory during the ceremony. We played his favorite song at the reception. And we danced. And we drank. And, inexplicably, we had fun.

15 years have passed since that day.

15 years and I’m still trying to figure out how to move through life without him. 15 years and I’m still learning about how this "after part" works.

A school picture of my brother.

I would gladly trade the things I’ve learned to have my brother back, but I learned a long time ago that bargaining doesn’t work. So usually, I choose to appreciate the lessons I’ve learned instead.

1. I’ve learned to cut people some extra slack.

You really don’t know what people are going through. You don’t know what they have endured. You don’t know what battles they may be fighting.

There were the times during my brother’s illness when I would find myself driving 15 mph in the left lane. I’d be lost somewhere between grief and exhaustion, and I would arrive home with no idea how I got there. There were times when I’d look up distractedly at the grocery store, only to realize that I’d been standing in the middle of the aisle, lost in thought, for 10 minutes.

I used to be the person who honked impatiently and threw dirty looks as I zoomed past a slow driver, but not anymore.

Now I know what it's like to really have a bad day, to be so lost in a world turned on its head that you’re completely unaware of your surroundings. I learned that we all have bad days. Some of us have really bad days. Most of us are just trying to make it to tomorrow.

2. I’ve learned that true compassion and grace are about suspending judgment.

Over and over, I saw that real compassion is giving people the benefit of the doubt: granting them access, assisting them when you don’t know them, being patient and kind even when you don’t know what they're actually going through.

If you have to know the behind the scenes? If you have to know their story in order to be kind? If your kindness is based on an assessment of their pain and if it is conditional? Then it’s not truly kindness; it’s just judgment.

I didn’t get this before. I wasn’t cruel, and I wasn’t mean-spirited, but I was impatient and I was easily irritated. That was before I realized the depths in which people can be trapped while still looking completely normal to the rest of the world.

3. I’ve learned that comfort sometimes comes from unexpected places.

There are people who had a huge impact on me, who helped me through difficult times, and they probably don’t even know the significance of their actions.

Sometimes, for me, it was the soft-spoken coworker who offered me a hug as I was leaving to meet my family at the hospital. He was shy and reserved, but he wrapped me in a big bear hug when I was overcome with emotion. I knew this small gesture was not easy for him to give, but his effort to offered me solace.

In another moment, that solace came from my brash, loud, jokester boss who let me take off as much time as I needed to be with my brother at the hospital. Another time, it was my friend from work who calmly assured me that I would feel joy again after I tearfully confided my fear and pain to her. And often, solace came from my husband’s brother and my sister-in-law, who drove 12 hours to attend my brother’s memorial service.

I learned that an act of kindness, no matter how small, is never wrong. Sometimes it’s the thing that can help someone put one foot in front of the other.

4. I’ve learned that I can still, even 15 years later, be blindsided by the cruel reality of it all.

Sometimes I’ll be sitting at my kid’s swim practice when a memory knocks the wind out of me. The next thing I know, I’m wiping away tears and hoping no one notices.

Sometimes I’ll be eating dinner at a restaurant and the waiter might look just like my brother. I’ll feel the loss and pain take over and overwhelm me. And in these moments, I’m always surprised at the cruel force of grief’s ability to blindside me.

Sometimes I'll see him when my kids do something especially mischievous, and my thoughts unwillingly flicker to images of my brother, to memories of the antics of a little boy long ago.

Me and my brother as young children.

Then, I start imagining what could have been: him egging them on, encouraging their exasperating behavior. And I can almost hear him laughing, enjoying every second of finding a way to torture me as an adult like he did as a little kid.

You can bottle yourself up and try to insulate yourself from it, but let me tell you: It’s not going away, so you might as well let it happen. You’ll feel it, you’ll hurt, but I’ve learned that you’ll also be OK. You will be OK.

5. I’ve learned that I’ll probably feel my brother’s presence forever.

I'll still see him in each of my children, in their personalities, in their senses of humor, which is what my brother was known for.

I'll still feel him when my family is together and my sister and my parents are laughing and we’re giving each other a hard time. I often feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I feel a warmth come over me, a warmth hard to describe because it’s unlike any sensation I’ve felt before.

And I hope I'll still feel him, forever, kicking me in the ass when I’m about to chicken out on doing something that scares me. I can almost hear what he would say to me in those situations: Don’t give up. You’re better than that.

I’ve learned to recognize these moments, when I feel him with me. They are bittersweet. They are welcome. And they tug at my heart because they will never be enough.

6. What I’ve realized most of all, after all of these years, is that there didn’t need to be a replacement for my brother.

When we knew, in those last weeks, that it would not be possible for him to walk me down the aisle, I contemplated other options. But in the end, I decided there was no understudy, and there would be no last minute stand-in. I couldn’t imagine replacing him in that role.

And as always, even though my brother wasn't physically there, he showed up. He kicked me in the ass a little and told me not to be scared. He reminded me that I didn’t have time to let my pain stand in the way of my wedding, my happiness.

Me and my husband walking down the aisle after our marriage ceremony.

In the end, my brother was still there with me on one of the best days of my life because he always has been.