When I was a new-ish mom and my children would have toddler tantrums, I was at a loss for how to help them. I felt helpless as I watched them cry over things like being told, “No, you can’t eat that worm,” or “The doggy food is for the doggy, not you.” 

I knew intellectually that they were too young to use rational logic to make decisions. I knew they couldn’t understand why they couldn’t have what they wanted right then, in exactly the way they wanted it. I knew they didn’t have the vocabulary to carefully explain why they wanted to eat the worm, or to understand my rational explanations for why they could not. Yet, for a time, I remained at a loss on how to comfort them. 

Holly Richardson is the editor of Utah Policy.

Provided by Holly Richardson

As I grew more experienced as a mother, the tantrums bothered me less and less. I began to understand that the tantrums were a normal expression of frustration and that the phase would pass as they grew in understanding and their ability to communicate. 

I learned to use distraction to interrupt the tantrum cycle and to respond with love and compassion. I learned to offer them limited options that let them choose for themselves, but without overwhelming them with too many choices. For example, instead of asking “What shirt do you want to wear?” I would ask “Do you want to wear the red shirt or the blue shirt?”

And then one day, I had an insight about God and my own temper tantrums.

You see, after my third child was born to my husband and me, I became a “habitual miscarrier.” I would get pregnant and lose the baby, get pregnant and lose the baby, over and over and over again. Dozens of times. 

I began to throw some amazing temper tantrums. One time, I announced to my family that I was expecting again with a cake that read: “Hip hip hooray, a baby’s on the way!” Within a few days, before we had eaten the entire cake, I miscarried. So, I did what any (non) rational person would do and took a kitchen knife and cut that cake into bits. 

In my toddler-like understanding, I thought God was a mean God, who delighted in torturing me by causing me to miscarry. I was so angry and so sad that I could not carry another baby. I could not understand why I couldn’t get what I wanted, when I wanted it and in exactly the way I wanted it. And frankly, no amount of “explanation” could placate me. 

I think I must be a slow learner, because it wasn’t until a couple of years ago, after more than 30 years of parenting a large family built mostly by adoption, that I had a new perspective on God and my miscarriages. 

Holly Richardson and her husband, Greg, with some of their 25 children and their grandchildren.

Provided by Holly Richardson

Child No. 25 (no typo) was throwing a temper tantrum. No longer bothered by tantrums, I picked her up and held her and said, “Oh sweetheart, it’s going to be OK.” In that moment, I flashed back to my tantruming over my miscarriages (and all the other times I didn’t get what I wanted, when I wanted it) and had this thought: God, during those ragey times, was saying to me, His immature child who lacked understanding, “Oh, Holly. It’s going to be OK.” 

I am grateful for that tender mercy, 30 years in the making. Now, during hard times when I feel ragey and desperately upset, I remember those words that came to me: “Oh, Holly. It’s going to be OK.” I know I am loved. I know God does not delight in tormenting His children, but has a bigger more expansive view than I. And I know it’s going to be OK. 

— Holly Richardson is a gospel doctrine teacher and temple ordinance worker.