No one is perfect, and anger is a part of the human condition. Sometimes we can’t control it; other times, only in moderation will do. When you have managed to achieve mastery over your anger, you’ll find that not only are the results more productive for yourself but also those around you as well.
“How to control your anger” is a blog post that offers ways to manage and control your anger. It discusses different methods of dealing with anger, including how to avoid it in the first place. Read more in detail here: how to control your anger.
Father’s Day is coming weekend, and you may have noticed that we’ve been running some father-themed pieces here on AoM. We have a few more for you, including Joel Schwartzberg’s piece from today. Mr. Schwartzberg is an award-winning writer and the author of “The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad,” a new book. This essay is based on one of the chapters of that book.
My eight-year-old son Charlie and I just gazed blankly at the hot dog laying by our feet for a split second, as if expecting it to anthropomorphize, dust itself off, and jump back onto the grill.
We’d just spent an hour, screw by small screw, putting the grill together. Charlie assisted me in carrying it to a little plot of grass outside our flat, where we assembled the charcoal into a neat, compact pyramid. Charlie inquired if he could move the hot dogs with the hefty tongs after the embers were covered white. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold the long tongs pinched, and we only had these three. But Charlie was enthusiastic about the prospect of extending his time of duty, so I gave him a chance.
“Use both hands,” I advised.
With the tongs, he cautiously caught a frankfurter, but the pinchers flew free as he moved his weight toward the grill, and the hot dog fell into the moist soil. This dog would not be saved by any five-minute, five-hour, or five-day regulation. It was the end of the narrative.
A Dad and his little kid are resting on a sofa behind a coffee table in a TV advertisement for a kind of paper towel. Two glasses of juice are on the table. The father stands up and spreads his legs on the table. The cute son imitates his father by putting his feet on the table. Naturally, the child spills his juice all over the place.
The child gives his father a terrified expression that would make a mime blush. Is he going to be sent to his room? Have you been yelled at? Viciously thrashed?
No. The father just grins and knocks his own cup over. Son is overjoyed. Mommy enters the scene, her gaze fixed on Dad.
Is Dad going to be banished to his room? Have you been yelled at? Viciously thrashed? We’ll never know for sure. But I’ve yet to find a parent who would handle such a situation in this manner. Certainly not me, having grown up in a household where “retards,” “dummies,” and “shmegeggies” were labeled as “retards,” “dummies,” and “shmegeggies.”
I’m not one to call my kid names, especially Yiddish ones, but I’m not always able to hold back displeasure, even for little transgressions like dropping a hot dog. In my brain, the words seemed like they were walking up to the batter’s box.
“Come on!” says the speaker.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong with you?”
“I KNEW it was going to happen.”
“Charlie…” I began, but my son rewrote all of my lines.
“Please accept my apologies. He slammed his small fists into his thighs, exclaiming, “I’m so foolish!” “I’m a moron!” “What a moron!”
Like a song from my boyhood, I sadly knew both the tone and the lyrics.
My parents purchased me a life-size ventriloquist dummy when I was ten years old. I lusted for it, but the jaw stopped responding to my pulls one day as I was toying with it. While I furiously tugged the thread, it hung absolutely motionless. The string then snapped.
I sobbed uncontrollably till my eyes were dry. I thought to myself, “Idiot.” “Foolish, stupid moron!” exclaims the narrator.
I folded up the doll, put it in a trash bag, and hid it behind the apartment in a dumpster to hide my parents’ dismay. Even for a dummy, it was an inhumane way to die. For 20 years, the doll’s abrupt disappearance was a significant family mystery.
I felt like I was peering through a one-way mirror as I watched Charlie mentally bludgeon himself; I could see him plainly, but I could also see my own ghostly image glaring back. My mother recalls me having horrific tantrums in my room, flinging clothing, destroying books, and shattering toys in a sobbing tsunami that only ceased when I was tired. My parents saw it as outward rage. In reality, I was punishing myself because I felt unworthy of all I had.
I really wanted to do for my kid what no one had done for me: hold him, soothe him, put myself between him and his hatred. Even that instinct seemed strange, like if I were attempting to regulate an uncontrollable organ. I wanted to say something comforting, but no matter how hard my mother tried, telling a child to stop feeling what he’s experiencing is pointless.
So I grabbed the hot dog and tossed it into a nearby yard on the spur of the moment.
My youngster fixed his gaze on me.
“That should make Luna pleased,” I remarked, referring to the white cat that patrols the back alley of my flat on a regular basis.
Charlie smiled and nodded.
I extended the tongs to him. “Can you give it another shot?”
He withdrew them from my hands after a little period.
I’m not sure whether Charlie’s next hot dog made it through the short trip. It didn’t make a difference. We just consoled one other as best we could and moved on from our differences.
If you loved this article, Joel’s latest book, The 40 Year Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad, is a must-read.
The “i can’t control my anger” is a problem that many people experience. This article will help you understand how to manage and control your anger.
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