Sometimes my parenting skills are less than what I'm proud of. Going over the names and values of coins with Berit last night proved to be frustrating as usual. It seemed no matter how many times we went over a dime being worth 10 cents, she just couldn't retain it. I kept trying to think of new ways to help her remember, but I was finally doing it in obvious frustration, emitting a negative energy that broke her little spirit. Finally, she wouldn't answer me.

"How much is it worth?"

Silence.

"Don't think, Berit. Just tell me how much it's worth. How many cents?"

More silence. She's scared, and she's sad.

"Berit, you're thinking. I told you not to think. Why aren't you saying anything?" It's as though I am purposely blind to the sadness and fear I am creating with my words and my energy, until finally she speaks.

"I'm having a heart attack."

Now it is me who is silent. Yes, I'm attacking her heart. She's stopped me dead in my tracks by putting words to the way I've been making her feel.

"You're having a heart attack?"

"Yes?

"I'm making you feel sad with my frustration, aren't I Berit."

"Yes."

"Oh Berit, I am so sorry...come here." I hug her for a while, and she cries a little. I feel horrible, and I know I need to figure out how not to do this in the future.

"Berit, I'm so sorry - this is my fault. I need to be nicer."

"It's ok, Daddy." She's always so forgiving of my glaringly monstrous parental errors. I feel worse than ever.

"Maybe you can help me. If you feel this way again, tell me right away."

We get through it, and she is breathing relieved. I figure a new more passive mneumonic for the coins. I tape a penny, nickel, dime, and quarter to a piece of paper with their names and amounts written on it, and we tape it up on her wall. She'll probably have them all memorized by tomorrow. But if she doesn't, that's ok too.