“Yours Is Not Yours”

We all get angry. But some hold back, while others shout. Some understand that emotions are not always the truth, while others turn their rage into the normal way of communicating. Especially with those we love. And especially with children.

Do you know when a person in a rage behaves worse than a sane one? When he perceives what is happening not as a situation but as a personal blow. Someone scratched your car — and you are in shock, as if it were not the metal that got scratched but you. Your child got a bad grade — and you take it not as his experience but as your own defeat. He has a runny nose, and you get angry as though he were deliberately ruining your life with his sniffles. Seriously.

Now imagine you are having breakfast. A peaceful breakfast. Your son bursts in and says: “Dad, the neighbor’s car got scratched!” — and you calmly keep eating, nodding: “Well, I think he has insurance.” Now the same son flies in with: “Dad, our car got scratched!” — and you drop your fork, grab your slippers and are ready to throw yourself out the window. That’s it, panic. Why? Because it is mine. And the other one is not mine. When it’s “mine,” you instantly lose your balance. The ownership instinct kicks in. A furious one.

And this is where the main problem of anger in parenting lies.

When we see a child as our property, we stop seeing a person in him. He becomes a project. A kind of investment. You invest in him, hope, make plans — and naturally expect him to measure up. And he doesn’t. He gets sick, messes up, argues, doesn’t want to study, likes strange music. Or decides to live completely differently from what you dreamed of.

And you get angry. Because “I did everything for him.” And he, the rascal, is ungrateful.

But this is where adulthood begins. And this is where Jewish thought says: stop. The child is not yours.

He came through you, but not to you. His soul is not your property. This is not a joint-stock company “Child & Co.” He is a separate person. A soul entrusted to you for safekeeping. Not as a gift. But as a deposit. As a mission. As an opportunity to be beside someone who is growing.

Everything in life can disappear: the car in an accident, money in bankruptcy, a partner in divorce, a house in an earthquake. Do you think at least your child will remain “yours”? No. Even he is not “yours.” This is the hardest thing to admit. But it is also the most liberating.

Because as soon as you stop seeing him as your property, you begin to see him as a person.

You no longer yell when he makes mistakes. Because it is his path, not your catastrophe. You don’t lose your temper when he does things differently from how you want. Because you are not the owner. You are a companion.

You are not the master. You are a guide. You are the home from which he will one day go out. With gratitude — if you are lucky. Or with a heavy heart — if you are not.

Parenthood is not power; it is service. Power wants to control. Service wants to support. And when you begin to relate to your child not as “mine” but as “entrusted to me,” you begin to truly communicate with him. Without pressure. Without inflated expectations. Without tantrums.

You stop fearing his mistakes — because they are his mistakes. And you are beside him. You are not his fear. You are his support.

Maturity is not to stop loving. It is to learn to love not because of, but in spite of. Not because the child is convenient, understandable, like you. But simply because he exists. And because his soul has been entrusted to you for a time.

Which means the task is not for him to become “what you want.” But for him to be able to become himself. With your help. With your example. And with your respect.

And if you understand this, you will stop losing your temper.

And if you don’t… well, you’ll keep leaping toward the window every morning when someone scratches what is yours. Although perhaps it is not yours at all.