Finding a medical diagnosis can be tricky. Some conditions are easy to identify and treat, while other symptoms are misleading, even with tests. I appreciate specialists who know their stuff but are humble enough to admit the limits of their skill.

When it comes to relationships, I have have been known to jump too quickly to a conclusion. Before I was married I sometimes judged parents as imperfect. When they'd yell at their rebellious kids, I could be certain that my own children would skip those stages. Setting an example of respect felt like a guarantee.   

 

Back then I crowned myself as patient. I remember helping a classmate learn to roller skate. I went round and round the rink backwards while holding her hands. She thanked me effusively, and I wore it like a badge. I knew I would be a serene parent when the time came. 

 

All that changed with our second child. Our toddler did not know how to be gentle with his little sister.  He tested her reactions to pain, and I got upset. No, enraged. No one was going to hurt my daughter, not even—especially not—her brother.  That was the beginning of a marathon of learning that I was squarely in the pack of parents that I had previously thought I’d be better than. I had become victim of the Three Finger Rule. Having one finger pointed at someone else meant that I have three pointed back at myself. 

 

It is tempting to look at other people and think we know what their problems are, and  just ow to improve them.

 

Then I stop skating backwards and realize that my task is to curb my own criticism. It keeps me surprisingly busy.