Why Reminding Yourself ‘They Won’t Always Be Like This’ Helps With Challenging Child Behavior
The tile of the grocery store checkout was cool against my four-year-old’s bare ankles, which made him kick harder when he dropped to the floor. It was 4:30 on a Tuesday, I’d forgotten the list on the fridge, my reusable tote was leaking applesauce down my wrist, and he was screaming so loud the cashier’s scanner froze mid-beep. “BUBBLE GUM. I WANT BUBBLE GUM.” My eight-year-old, Lila, slid behind the cart and pretended she didn’t know us, her kid watch already open to a text to her best friend about how embarrassing her brother is. A woman with a cat canvas bag from the produce aisle paused to stare. I stood there, one hand on the cart handle, and thought the same thing I think every time this happens: He’s always going to be like this.
I thought the exact same thing last year, when I was subbing in a local second grade classroom and Javi spent the entire day face-down on his desk. The regular teacher left a note: He’s always like this. Won’t work, won’t talk, just ignores you. I tried everything the note suggested: moving his desk, offering a sparkly sticker, asking him what was wrong. He just pulled his hoodie over his head and didn’t move. By recess, I was convinced too. This kid is just checked out, forever. Three months later I was back in that same classroom, and Javi was the first kid to raise his hand when I asked who wanted to share something for show and tell. He pulled three sparkly quartz rocks out of his pocket and talked for five minutes straight about how he found them behind his grandma’s house. After class he came over and showed me a photo of his new baby sister on his dad’s phone. Turns out when I’d had him before, his parents had just split, he was sleeping on the couch every night, and he was too tired to lift his head off the desk. That wasn’t who he was. That was just where he was, right then.
Back at the grocery store, I got my son Milo calmed down enough to hold my hand, loaded the groceries into the car, and by the time we pulled into the driveway he was fast asleep in his car seat, face still streaked with tears. I sat there for five minutes, waiting, and scrolled through my camera roll to pass the time. I found a video from 2019, Lila at exactly Milo’s age, laying on the floor of Target screaming over a unicorn sticker that was stuck to the wrong side of the checkout bag. I’d completely forgotten that. I remembered back then, standing in that same Target aisle, thinking the same thought: She’s always going to be this way. She’ll always melt down over every tiny disappointment. Now Lila argues with me about screen time limits like she’s prepping for a Supreme Court case, she remembers her lunch box three days out of four, she helps her brother put his rain boots on when we’re running late. That entire phase was gone, and I barely remembered it until I saw that video.
I used to think “they won’t always be like this” was just a sappy quote people post on Instagram to get likes. But it’s turned into the most useful thing I tell myself, both as a parent and a substitute teacher, and it doesn’t cost anything to use.
The biggest thing it does is keep me from escalating when things feel out of control. When I’m mid-tantrum, instead of spiraling into “he’s doing this on purpose to ruin my day” or “this is never going to end,” I just say that phrase quietly to myself. It slows me down enough that I don’t yell or give in just to make the embarrassment stop. Instead, I do one simple thing: state the boundary clearly, then wait. In the grocery store, that was kneeling down where Milo could see me, saying “I know you’re really mad you can’t have gum right now. Kicking the display isn’t okay, and we’re leaving when you’re ready to hold my hand.” I don’t negotiate, I don’t over-apologize to strangers, I just wait. That’s something anyone can pull off, even when you’re tired and you forgot the list.
For teachers, that same phrase keeps me from sticking a permanent label on a kid who’s going through a hard patch. I don’t think “unmotivated” or “disruptive” anymore, because I know whatever behavior you’re seeing right now is usually a response to something that won’t be there forever. The small concrete thing I do for kids like Javi is just a 10-second non-school check-in every day, no pressure. I don’t push them to talk about their problems or lecture them about missing work. I just say “cool sneakers, where’d you get those?” or “did you see that big hawk by the playground this morning?” It takes no extra time, it doesn’t disrupt the rest of the class, and it gives them a small opening to connect when they’re ready.
I also keep a tiny folder in my phone labeled “old phases.” I dump photos and one-sentence notes in there when we get through a hard stretch: “Lila screamed for 45 minutes because I cut her sandwich diagonally instead of straight,” “Milo refused to poop anywhere but his changing pad for two months,” “Javi wouldn’t speak for three weeks of subbing.” When I’m in the middle of a new hard phase, I open it up and look for 10 seconds. It’s a quick, concrete reminder that all those big, overwhelming hard times ended.
Right now, we’re in a new phase with Lila: she’s 8, she slams her door at least twice a day, usually when we ask her to take out the trash or stop watching YouTube. She yells that we’re the worst parents in the whole world and she’s moving out. Some days I sit on the other side of the door and think, she’s always going to be this dramatic, this angry about small things. Then I remember the folder, I remember the Target tantrum, and I know she won’t. This isn’t forever. It’s not that hard phases don’t matter, or that we should just wait them out without setting boundaries. I still take away screen time when she slams the door and yells. I still don’t buy bubble gum at checkout when we already had candy that day. It just means I don’t mistake the phase for the kid. The other night Lila slammed her door after I told her she couldn’t have a sleepover this weekend, and an hour later she slid a drawing she made of us at the lake under my door. It’s messy, it’s hard, and it changes faster than I can keep up. But right now, that phrase is enough for me.
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