Mom is supposed to be a rock. If I can completely deplete her with just one tantrum, what does that mean? What am I—a little girl struggling with emotional regulation—supposed to do with that information?

Telepathic message to supervisor: End phone conference. Now. Would love to hear about innovative new branding strategies…tomorrow.

Finally, a goodbye. I slammed down the phone, ready to begin my weekly Wednesday sprint.

Mark, a shy copywriting intern, thrust a press release in my face. “Can you look this over?” he said, licking his lips nervously.

“Don’t bodd-ah her!” Angela swiveled in her chair, brandishing a nail file. She winked, picked up her fuchsia jar of polish, then gave a knowing nod. “Lana’s got poy-sonal business to attend to.”

The 22 year old flushed, mumbled some apologetics, and scampered away.

“Way to go, dear,” I said drily, slamming the laptop shut. “Scare off the young ones before they can accomplish anything.”

It was play therapy day, and—as usual—I was late. It was a shame, because Risa had become a powerful presence in our lives, and now that I’d started Dr. Spencer’s course, we had even more to discuss.

“Every person in this world has an emotional bank account,” Dr. Spencer had declared on Sunday, looking comically preppy in a checkered shirt and cardinal-red bowtie. “Positive, loving interactions—those are deposits. Negative, anger-filled interactions—withdrawals. If you don’t have enough money in the account, there’s nothing to withdraw.”

Say your child bursts through the door, perceives what’s for dinner, and explodes, the doc offered as an example. Child fails to use a calm-down strategy, instead screaming “I HATE meatballs!” for seven consecutive minutes, while flinging the contents of his backpack across the kitchen floor. Mom—who slaved away at the pot after an exhausting workday—is emotionally finished. When, an hour later, Child asks Mom to bake a cake for his history party the following day, she should calmly demur, saying: “When you tantrummed earlier, you ate up all the coins in my emotional bank account. There’s no money—no energy—left for me to do special things for you. I’m so sorry.”

This approach, Dr. Spencer asserted, teaches children that their uncontrolled rages have consequences. It ingrains in them: cooling down is worth it. No one will want to help me, or be around me, if I’m forever blowing up.

I came home from the session on a high. How utterly liberating! I could finally discharge my frustration—tangibly show Shira the welts she inflicts daily on the mental health of family members (with me topping the list). If she got a cost-benefit analysis, I reasoned, surely she’d think twice before detonating.

But something inside me niggled. It didn’t feel 100% glatt—why?

I tried the technique almost immediately.

“No, sweets, I cannot read you Madeline tonight,” I said, attempting unsuccessfully to hide my flaming exasperation and avoid looking triumphant. “When you teased Tali, smacked Dahlia, and grabbed Ari’s toy, you totally emptied the wallet in my brain. Now there’s no money—no koach—left.”

Shira paled. She stood there, mouth agape, speechless.

Now that didn’t happen often. Was that fear in her eyes?

The image whorled in my mind now as I dashed up the steps to Risa’s office for the parent meeting. She listened carefully. “Hmm…how do you think Shira felt when you announced this?”

Classic Risa—throw the question back at me.

I chose to be honest. “She looked taken aback, almost scared.”

Risa nodded, letting a silent minute pass.

“If I were seven years old, I’d also be scared,” she said softly. “Mom is supposed to be a rock. If I can completely deplete her with just one tantrum, what does that mean? What am I—a little girl struggling with emotional regulation—supposed to do with that information? It’s overwhelming.”

I let the words sink in.

“If you don’t have the energy,” Risa added, “just say ‘Sorry, no energy now.’ No need to attribute your mental state to her actions. Shira’s too young.”

She was right, as usual, and the professional validation offered relief. Yes, it had been exhilarating for me to let loose—and, in a pathetically childish way, engage in a tit-for-tat. But I was the adult. Lobbing the burden of my emotional stability on a limited 2^nd grader was just…unfair.

Dr. Spencer, I knew, had lots of valuable things to impart. But when a mother’s heart protests, I slowly realized, perhaps I need to sit up and listen to its cry.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 474)