What happens to your pulse rate when your phone rings and the caller I.D. shows that it’s your child’s rebbe or morah calling?  I hope you anticipate a conversation that will highlight your child’s successes before discussing, if necessary, any areas in which improvement is desired.

If areas of improvement are discussed, make sure you understand what the teacher would like to see your child doing differently or more consistently.  Then make sure your child can do it.  I met with a dad named Yoni who wasn’t sure how to help his son Shlomo accomplish what his rebbeim were sure the child could do.

I just got off the phone with my son’s rebbe for the new school year.  He said that he is very much looking forward to having Shlomo in his class this coming year, and that he is sure that Shlomo will live up to his potential.  You would think that I would have been very encouraged by what the next year’s rebbe said, but I was actually somewhat concerned.  I have heard the “live up to his potential” expression before, and I have a real problem with it.  Six or seven times this year, Shlomo’s rebbe called to say that Shlomo is a very sweet and bright fifth-grader who could do better if he tried harder; he just wasn’t living up to his potential.  I admired the rebbe’s concern and his willingness to take the time to call me.  Every time the rebbe called, I sat down with Shlomo and explained to him that his rebbe really likes him and knows that he could do better.  I encouraged him to try harder, to study more, and to live up to his potential.  But by the end of the year, Shlomo was still getting 80s in all of his limudei kodesh subjects.  So my problem is, how do I motivate Shlomo to reach his potential?  I’m afraid I’m going to get the same phone calls again next year, and I’m not going to know what to do just like I didn’t know what to do last year.

As I listened to this concerned dad, I thought about the delicate choices that therapists make when it comes to self-disclosure.  When, if ever, is it appropriate for me to talk about my own experiences when they seem in some ways similar to those of a client?

One interpretation of the Mishna al tadin es chaveircha ad sh’tageah limkomo is that you can never really be in someone else’s place so you should never judge them.  I know it’s never helpful for me to say to a client, “I know exactly what that’s like,” because I don’t know exactly what it’s like for them.  But when is it helpful to say, “I went through something like that once and here is what it was like for me.”   

There may be some value in my telling them that I’ve had a similar experience because it “normalizes” their experience.  Sometimes it’s reassuring to know that other people have had similar challenges in their lives.  In this case, my self-disclosure would be a cautionary tale.

I’m sitting here, Yoni, and not saying anything because I’m thinking about these phone calls you’ve been getting about your son.  You’ve really struck a nerve here, and it’s not about phone calls that I got from my children’s teachers over the years.  It’s about phone calls my parents, aleihem hashalom, told me about when I was in school.  I’m going way back here, all the way back to first grade when Mrs.  Levy told my parents that I needed to work on my penmanship.  I still remember sitting with a pencil and many sheets of paper, practicing writing in what turned out to be a futile effort to improve my handwriting.  As I think back on that, I wonder what my parents could have done to “motivate me” to improve my handwriting.  And you know what, Yoni?  I figured it out.  There were all kinds of things my parents could have said and done that would’ve motivated me.  Chances are they did say and do lots of very nice things and I felt very motivated.  And my handwriting didn’t get the least bit better. 

But I don’t get it.  If you were really motivated why didn’t you do better?

Because, Yoni, when you propose a solution before you understand the problem, you probably haven’t solved anything.  To this very day, I am motivated to have nicer handwriting.  I have tried cartridge pens, gel pens, ballpoint pens, thicker and thinner, wider and fatter grip pens; I’ve tried writing faster, slower, larger, smaller, and angling the paper in various ways, all to no avail.  And you know what I figured out?  I am not lacking motivation.  I’m lacking skill.  And you can stand there all day and tell me that if I tried harder I’d be able to write more legibly.  All that would happen is that I would feel as frustrated and resentful as I did back then.

Was it helpful to Yoni that I self-disclosed all of that?  Not yet.  Here’s the part that helped him.

Nobody thought this way 50 years ago but maybe now if it were really important to help a child with his penmanship, the teacher or parent would begin by sitting down with the child and seeing if they can help him.  If they can’t, they would arrange an evaluation of his manual dexterity to see if there’s something that’s making it hard for him to write as nicely as they wish he would.  If remediation can help, provide it.  If nothing can help, if it’s just the best he can do, then understand that no amount of motivation can possibly help him do any better.

There are ways to measure skill.  How do you measure motivation?  How do you know that your child could do better if he were more motivated, if he would really try?

You will be doing better when you slow down and gently ask your child, “What happens when you try?”

Rabbi Yitzchak Shmuel Ackerman is a Licensed Mental Health Counselor with specialties in marriage, relationships, and parenting.  He works with parents and educators, and conducts parenting seminars for shuls and organizations.  He can be reached at 718-344-6575.