Childhood fears are as real to them, as our adult ones are to us. Case in point, when my daughter was younger and before I better understood highly sensitive children (afflinks), we drove past Seattle's Fremont Troll and it scared the heck out of her. She dubbed it the second scariest thing in the universe, coming in on her list only behind the scary mice from the Nutcracker ballet.
Now, this was a tricky one, because we'd both seen the troll. I couldn't deny it was there; she didn't imagine it. It was, and is, real.
Bedtime was a mess for a long time thereafter. Eventually, it got easier again...for awhile. But sure enough, before long (and always just as I thought her fear was behind us), the troll would raise its metaphorical head in her bedroom. It became the bane of her existence.
Using my adult logic, I told her it was made of stone and that it couldn't move. It was just a statue. We delved more deeply into physiology than I thought we would at her age, but she wanted to know everything about how real bodies work versus this stone one.
She certainly didn't talk about it often, but if something were to keep her up at night, this was it. So, I did some research about kids' fears.
So, um, good luck, kids!
Knowing this, you see there's not a lot of sense into talking to a part of our kids' brains that can't completely comprehend the message. Scary is scary; fear is fear. Sure, you can (and should) let a child know when something isn't actually a danger to them (and why), but neither logic nor telling them they shouldn't be afraid will address the root of the problem. In fact, telling them not to be afraid might have the effect of making them feel you don't "hear" their concerns. Even as an adult, if another adult were to tell me I shouldn't feel my feelings, their advice would go over like a lead balloon. My feelings are valid to me. My child's feelings are equally valid to her.
So, what can you do when your child expresses a fear, real or imaginary, and you want to support him through it? How can you solve the problem?
This is a tricky one for adults because it feels counterintuitive, but our best option isn't to do something. We can't fix a problem that's not our own. Instead, empathize with your child (highly sensitive or not). Whether it's a monster in the closet, a fear of the dark, or many other common childhood fears, the process is often the same. Here's what I had to learn.
Ironically, this means talking (and "solving") less. I had to refrain from offering my logic and suggestions. If you're anything like me, it will likely feel uncomfortable to you, and might even feel like you're reinforcing the opposite of what you want to convey. Much of active listening involves playing back what you've heard.
The most thorough description I've read of active listening, with loads of examples for all ages (yep, I mean all), is in this phenomenal book. I highly recommend it--it goes well beyond what you'll read here and is an amazing tool to help foster connection and encourage your kids--even older ones--to open up to you. Heck, even my marriage works better when I use the tools therein, but I digress. (Note: I thought I knew what active listening entailed until I read the details. It's not quite as obvious as it sounds, but is an incredibly helpful book for adults. For a kids' "how-to" book about managing worries and anxiety, this book is great.)
Here's how active listening to process the fear transpired in our house:
Her: "Why is the scary troll so scary?"
Me: "You feel really afraid when you think about the troll."
Her: "Yes. It's too scary for me and I want it to go away."
Me: "You wish it would disappear forever. I see how hard it is to fall asleep when you're scared."
Her: "It's SO hard, Mommy! I keep thinking about it. Please don't leave the room."
Me: "I'll stay with you. I'm here for you and I love you."
Was it really the troll keeping her up, or was she afraid of being alone and using it as a scapegoat? It doesn't matter; she needed support and wanted my presence, so I gave it to her. We continued this way for many a night. She wasn't ready for more. Knowing my child as I do, pushing her beyond where she's comfortable would've backfired. It always works better when I trust her timing. In various ways, she indicated that this conversation alone was exactly what she needed. Once she knew I was staying, sleep would come quickly for her, knowing she was heard and supported.
I knew she was ready for the next phase of processing her fear when I tried something new--integrating the troll into a story--and she didn't push back on my attempts. When I'd tried earlier in the process, she'd nervously asked me to stop, so I did. When she listened to the story, I knew she was ready.
By that, I don't mean I waited to see what happened; I made the object of her fear a little less frightening through play (without minimizing her concern). It's was a fine line; I made sure she felt fully supported and emotionally safe before I tried it. One night, I added this:
Her: "Why is the scary troll so scary?"
Me: "It really scares you. (Thoughtful pause.) You know...I wonder how it would look if it were pink."
Her: "Less scary."
Me: "Yeah. I'm going to paint it pink. And paint its hair purple."
Her (slightly smiling): "And its eye, pink sparkle."
Every night, we'd mentally paint the troll different colors.
"I'm going to tell you a story where it becomes a pink helper troll. The troll isn't scary in this story; in fact, it's only a costume to scare away the scary mice (from the aforementioned Nutcracker ballet). This troll protects children..."
She wanted this story for a long time. Eventually, she contributed to the storytelling. This troll became one of the best do-gooders of any character she knew.
All along the way (and during daylight hours only), I'd been suggesting that one day, we go visit the troll that started it all. Up until this point, she had steadfastly refused. I respected her refusal. Putting myself in her shoes, I wouldn't want someone to force me to literally face one of my strongest adult fears up close, if I weren't ready.
I also didn't bring up the troll proactively. When I tried that approach, it seemed to increase her anxiety about it. The process worked better when the troll just found its way into her requests from time to time, as it always did. Sometimes, weeks would pass before it would rear its head again. And each time, we dealt with it, and I tested the waters to see if we could move forward a bit.
One day while talking about it, she asked if we could go and paint a door on the troll. Although I knew adding any form of permanent graffiti on a public work of art wouldn't be acceptable, I felt hopeful and intrigued.
Me: "Yes, we can go visit the troll. And tell me more. Why would you paint a door on it?"
Her: "Because the troll isn't really a troll. He's just a shell filled with chocolate cake, and if we paint a door, we can open it and go inside and get some cake."
Me: "Yes, we can do that. Permanent paint isn't allowed on the troll, but I wonder if we can draw a door on it with chalk. Would that work?"
Her: "Yes, it would. Let's do that. Let's go put the chalk in the car now."
She chose purple, and we embarked upon our very real mission to face hear fear and get the imaginary cake from the troll.
Once we got to the troll, though, she announced, "Mommy, I don't want to draw on it anymore."
My heart sank. I assumed her fear had come back and that we were back to square one (or at least close to it).
Much to my surprise, she matter of factly added, "I don't need the chalk because I'm not afraid of it anymore. It's not scary. It's just...a statue."
Wow.
A lot of single moments, that is. It took a lot of active listening. It took a lot of "baby steps," meeting her right where she was emotionally--encouraging progress, and promoting her ability to conquer her fear without forcing it. This wasn't a band-aid solution. She wouldn't "get over it" just by being instructed to do so. It took time and patience. Most of all, it took trust.
It's still awhile before my child is a teenager, but I want her to be fully rooted in the fact that I do hear her. I want to build the foundation that I can see her perspective before the issues get trickier. I want her to know that I get it, whatever "it" turns out to be.
Cleaning with kids isn't easy---sometimes it seems like all they want to do is play! One day, though, everything changed in how I viewed the process. Suddenly, life got a whole lot easier.
I was in the kitchen making homemade almond butter (yum!). My five-year-old walked in with her cup of water and announced, "Mommy, let's pretend you're working in a bakery!" That sounds about right, considering how much time I spend cooking.
She added, "I've brought my cup of water for any of your customers who want it!"
As she started towards me, water still in hand, her steps turned into bunny hops. (I love how kids do that.) However, as she quickly learned, hopping with an open cup of water quickly makes for a wet bunny-child and slippery floor.
I reminded her that we keep rags in the drawer near where she was standing. Usually, reminding her where the cleaning supplies live (or where things go) works much better than a direct request to clean.
Example of what doesn't fly in our house: "Please put away your shoes."
What usually works better: "Shoes live in the utility room."
This time, however, when I reminded her where we keep the rags, she responded with a happy and factual tone, "That's not my job." That's right--she just had me working in a bakery, so she must do something else for a living. A five-year-old has to earn her keep somehow, right?
Ahem. New strategy required. Fortunately, I've read some amazing books that address situations like these, including cleaning with kids. My favorites are this one and this one (afflinks) and they've inspired much of how we live.
That aside, knowing that Dictator Mommy--the part of me that's sometimes tempted to tell her what to do--usually (and rightfully) gets overthrown, I realized that playing along was my best bet.
"Oh," I informed her, "This is what's called a cooperative bakery! Instead of paying money, all the customers who come in pay for their donuts by doing a specific job when they get here." I held up my imaginary donut. "Today, you get to help me wipe up the bakery floor!"
"Ooh," she responded, wide-eyed and ready, "Okay!" Off she went, and within seconds, she'd wiped up the spill. I handed her a delicious piece of air, which she happily pretended to gobble up.
It's not always that easy, of course.
Truth be told, I'd always rather play than clean, so how can I blame her? Happily, we do find ways to make it easy sometimes.
Another day, we had to clean the hardwood floors, but she really didn't want to. She wanted me to play with her. I heard her out, empathized, and agreed that playing with her would be more fun. Still, sometimes "no" has to happen with a loving limit. I reassured her that we'd play again as soon as the floors were done.
I got out our floor mop along with its colorful and eco-friendly reusable pads. Much to our surprise, however, the crazy yellow pad didn't want to go on the mop! I pretended it was trying to--really?--give me a haircut! I was shocked and appalled. There was NO WAY I'd allow it to touch my head. Once I finally convinced it to stay on the floor, it managed to pull me all over the place in directions I didn't want to go. Cheeky mop!
Within moments, my daughter needed a turn. And do you know what? That crazy Yellow Fellow (as we dubbed him) pulled her all through the living room and down the hallway. It even pulled her into the bathroom. Such nerve it had pulling her around like that! I made sure she knew all the while how "broken" the Yellow Fellow was. For awhile, she even traded it for her own cleaning tools. She thought it was hilarious, even if she knew full well that she was the one "driving" them. And she cleaned the floor thoroughly because, on some level, she knew exactly what the tools were supposed to do.
Sometimes, we play the "Whatever You Do" game, in which I dramatically say things like, "Whatever you do, do NOT unload the silverware from the dishwasher. That would be SO TERRIBLE! I couldn't bear to watch!" She knows by the smile in my eyes that I'm joking. And then I feign horror as she tortures me with her work. As an aside, this one translates well to a whole host of situations. I started saying it when she was about three (along with explaining how the game worked the first time I tried it). It's worked like magic ever since.
When the toys, art supplies, or whatever-it-is get out of control, sometimes it's simply a safety issue. In this case, I'll present it accurately as my own problem, as in, "I'm worried someone will trip on all of this. Let's find a safe place to put this doll / this ball / this whatever-it-is. Where can we put it to keep everyone safe?" I choose one item at a time to avoid overwhelming her with the enormity of the task. It may look like a quick and easy job to my adult eyes, but her eyes--and her brain--see things differently.
And for whatever reason, speaking in her terms and "putting things to bed" really resonates with her. We pick up her toys and put them all to bed, even if they're things like cars or tractors. This strategy has worked quite effectively since she was about two. Sometimes we do a variation of it and find "parking places" for things, but all sorts of toys and books simply need their shuteye. If she pushes back, empathizing and reminding her that they'll wake up again in the morning usually helps.
Most importantly, I respect that if someone asked me to clean spur of the moment, I might push back, too (especially if I were in the middle of doing something else). Cleaning with kids is no different. If she simply won't help some days, that's okay. I let it go and don't force it. I respond sincerely, "I trust you'll help me next time." More often than not, she does help the next time. A single power struggle just isn't worth her resisting in the future if she starts to see cleaning as a control issue.
She loves it when I offer to help her. Like all kids, she craves connection and togetherness more than just about anything else. Knowing I'll be with her while we work helps accomplish that for her. In fact, she often says, "Oh good--we get to spend more time together if we clean!" (Yeah, I raised an eyebrow the first time she said it, but it's true.) And now, she's sometimes quite proactive when she sees a mess that needs cleaning, with or without my help. She didn't learn by being told what to do. She learned by observing and by being invited.
Reminding myself what's appropriate for her age really helps, too. Just like I don't expect her to take the car in for an oil change, I also understand that some tasks are simply beyond her ability. And her ability might not look the same every day, depending on all sorts of variables. Picking up all the Legos while her favorite TV show is on might, sometimes, legitimately be too overwhelming or distracting for her developing brain.
Is my house perfect? Heck no. It's nowhere near what it used to be before I had a child, and I really appreciate a heads up before friends stop over. Rather than lowering the bar entirely, though (hey, that'd just be one more thing to trip over), we've found ways to work together. We've created a low-pressure household where we all help each other by choice rather than by mandate. We don't call cleaning "chores" or attach a financial or other physical rewards to our work. In truth, I don't "get" her to do anything. We just agree to help each other without forcing it. It works surprisingly well.
I dare say cleaning with kids can sometimes be incredibly fun.
I was just waking up and remembered that I needed to move some food from the night before from the refrigerator to the freezer. Upon opening the fridge, I noticed that the lid on the food wasn't secure, so I tried to push it down. In doing so, my Superheroine-Like Muscles (that must be it, right?) managed to push down the entire shelf. Half the food went airborne and the other half, along with the shelf, came crashing down like an avalanche. That's one way to wake me up!
Some of the food flew far enough to land on a Magna-Tiles creation (afflink) that my daughter had made. Now, unlike many kids who assemble and dismantle toys as often as they blink, my child, who's a self-proclaimed engineer, will painstakingly plan and build her creations, adding to them over weeks and months until they're "just right." She develops intricate stories about the imaginary people living in her elaborate villages, and if I didn't know better, I'd think they were really there.
So, when the Food Monsoon came through and damaged her village, she was devastated. 
I was still tired and a bit grouchy. The chaos I'd created before having my morning tea didn't help matters. Rather hastily, I instructed her to back up while I cleaned the mess. I wasn't thinking about the effects on her Magna-Tiles; I just wanted to get the food off the ground as quickly as possible.
Hot on my heels, she followed me to the utility room to get the cleaning supplies. I barely noticed she was there until I heard the distinct sound of a muffled sob. She was trying to let me work, but her sadness was finding its way out.
Only then did I see her. I knelt down despite my frustration and, still in my rational adult brain, I hugged her and told her calmly that I just needed to clean up and then we could get ready for breakfast.
Woah, Nelly. Not so fast.
"But Mommy," she struggled to say through an increasingly reddening face, "What about the family who lived in the house I built?"
Oh, right. The family. There were (imaginary) people in there. Still not "getting it," I replied softly, "Let's make the houses again together as soon as the materials are clean."
I needed to wake up. It wasn't the loss of the houses she was mourning; it was the people. The people she'd imagined; the people she'd grown to love in perfect childlike endearment.
Finally, I got it. I had to get out of my adult brain and address it from the perspective of a five-year-old. I know better than to "solve" problems as I'd been trying in my haste; she needed me to actively listen and to see her.
"I hear you're really concerned about the people," I started, "and you're worried they won't have a place to live."
Cue the big sobs. I'd hit the right nerve. The tears came heavily then and lingered for a long while; her heart weighed down with a child-sized natural disaster. It was completely real to her, as it should be. That's how kids' brains work.
"Yes, Mommy! What will they do?"
Finally connecting as I should have since the beginning, I replied, "I hear your deep concern for the family. You really care about them." Without attempting to solve her problem, I listened. I held her as she mourned and processed her feelings. After she'd allowed her storm to pass, she regained a sense of calm. Rushing her or reassuring her that she was alright (when she didn't feel that way) would've invalidated her experience. Listening empathetically as she worked through her sadness allowed her to build resilience, along with fostering trust in herself that she can get through hard things.**
At this point, still fully entrenched in her imagination and worry, she looked to me for guidance. The best way to connect with her in that moment was to join her right where she was: understanding her imaginary people's needs. She needed to play it out.
When she was ready for problem solving but too emotionally spent to suggest something on her own, I offered, "I want to you to know something important. I'm not sure if you saw it last night, but the family left a letter for us. It said they were going on vacation and that they wouldn't be at home today. They were planning to have some renovations done to their house and knew it would have to come down for awhile, so they were going camping in the other room. They were planning to sleep under the stars on top of your trampoline."
She blinked at me.
"But Mommy, couldn't they just sleep under the trampoline if they wanted to be in the dark? I think that's what they would want to do."
I agreed that, oh yes, it would be darker under there. That's likely what they did, and I told her so. Her mood instantly lifted.
She needed to know that I "got it" and could reassure her in her terms, not mine, that all would be well with the world again.
After all, when bad things happen to good people, isn't that what we all want?
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** This is a helpful book for learning how to support your kids' emotional intelligence. To see all the cooking, child-, and parenting-related items that have stood the test of time in my house, including my favorite books, click here. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.
I was driving home from the doctor with my five-year-old child. She was on day six of a 102-degree fever and all its accompanying crud. All she wanted was to get back home, as did I.
As we were driving along a busy two-lane road at about 35 miles per hour, I saw him. A boy who was about 10 years old stepped off the curb several cars in front of me and lay down in the street, directly in front of oncoming traffic. The car closest to him swerved out of the way. So did the one behind it. By the time I got there, which was a mere few seconds later, he'd popped up and sprinted to the other side of the street. His three friends--two boys his age and an older girl (who was maybe 14)--were carrying their backpacks home from school. They were laughing and seemed to be egging him on.
Oh, sh**, I thought.
Feeling my adrenaline kick in but being completely unsure what to do with a row of fast-moving cars behind mine, I continued to drive ahead for about half a mile while my heart raced with emotion. Worry. Anger. Strong worry. Strong anger. I judged him harshly, livid that he'd endangered so many lives, and especially his own. Some tragedies don't need to happen. How dare he?
Finally, some reason snapped into me. This is someone's kid. Mentally flashing to my own child and envisioning her older and, God forbid, making the same horrible choice, I suddenly and briefly loved this unknown boy as I do my own child. Somehow, love strongly overtook my anger and fear.
I had to help him.
As quickly and safely as I could, I drove back to where he was. This time when I saw him, he was darting back and forth across both lanes of traffic without lying down, having to sprint due to the the speed and frequency of the oncoming traffic from both directions. He was close to a corner so many of the drivers couldn't see him until they were nearly on top of him. His friends continued to stand at the side of the road, safely away on the sidewalk. They no longer looked impressed. They didn't look worried, either. If anything, they looked dismissive. Perhaps this is just the "thing" he does on the way home from school some days. Old news?
Well, kid, you're not going to die on my watch.
Seeing exactly where he was, I pulled up to a safe place on the side of the road where he was and rolled down my passenger-side window. Then, I proceeded to get it all wrong.
My heart still pounding fast enough to nearly send me into the nearby hospital, I yelled out to him like a banshee, "Stop it!" I held up my smartphone for him to see it (the weapon that is modern technology?) for some reason that is still unbeknownst to me. Perhaps I was subconsciously threatening to call the police; perhaps he'd think I was taking his photo. In reality, I just had Google Maps up from before any of the excitement started. My flustered brain couldn't figure out how to turn it off. I had no clue what I was doing.
He approached the car as I continued to yell something that, even to me, was largely unintelligible. My heart was in the right place, but I'm sure I looked like either a threat or a fool to him. Likely both. There was nothing in my outward demeanor that empathized, "I'm here because I care about you." He took a couple of steps closer, flashed a Cheshire cat-like smile at me and held it for a moment, then bolted off as fast as he could the opposite direction.
Not okay. This is backfiring. I'm trying to help, but he sees me as the enemy.
As soon as I safely could, I did a U-turn to go the direction he ran. Upon doing so, I unintentionally, but very luckily, pulled into a driveway that blocked his friends who were now walking my direction down the sidewalk. Feeling the need to engage their help, I rolled down my window.
I have to get this right. Even if these aren't my kids, I need to use everything I've ever read about gentle parenting and "I-statements"** instead of anything they'd perceive as accusatory. I can't scream at them or be like any of the other adults who may have punished, chastised, or shamed them for their behavior. This needs to be personal and loving.
All three of the kids--the boy's friends--clearly just wanted me to move on. I could see on their faces that they didn't want me there. They looked at me exactly as if I were just another adult about to lecture them. However, I managed to lock eyes with one of the boys. In a very shaky but surprisingly loud voice, I pleaded from the heart, "I am so worried about your friend! I am so, so worried!"
He looked puzzled. I'm sure my approach caught him off-guard. He might've been expecting me to do what I'd done to his friend across the street: effectively flip out on him.
I kept my eyes locked on his and repeated all my brain could muster, "I am so worried about him! I feel so scared when I see kids playing in such dangerous ways! Your friend could die! I don't want any child to die! My little girl is in the car with me, and I don't want her to see a boy die! I am so incredibly scared for him! I feel so, so afraid!" The truth--the core of every feeling I had in that moment--was gushing out of me like water. My eyes welled up with tears as I spoke. I hadn't planned a word of it. My heart was speaking to the boy.
With that, this boy's lip started to quiver. His friends started to chuckle, but this boy held my gaze. Much to my surprise, he blurted out, "I was doing it, too! It wasn't just him! We were playing chicken with the cars! He said it was fun, and it was. I stopped eventually, but I did it, too. It was me, too. I did it. I was playing chicken." He pointed to the older girl and added, "She said we should stop, but we didn't. We kept playing." And he cried, confessing through his tears.
Dear Lord. Please be here. I don't know what to do.
Stunned again, my shaky but now calmer voice said to him, still without breaking eye contact, "Thank you so much for stopping. Thank you so, so much. You made such a good choice to stop. You made the right choice. Thank you for stopping. You did the right thing. You really did the right thing." Apparently I repeat myself when my heart rate exceeds 200 bpm. He continued to cry hard, right there on the sidewalk. In hindsight, they seemed to be the cleansing tears of confession; the release he needed in that moment. He didn't need shaming; he needed an olive branch.
I looked at the older girl, who by rolling her eyes, was indicating to me that she wasn't particularly interested in our conversation. I caught her gaze on one of her eye rolls, though, and held it. To her, I said, "Thank you for telling the boys to stop. They need you. You have influence and you can make such a difference to them. Thank you so much for helping take care of these kids. These kids need you. Thank you so much."
Although it didn't look to me like she'd tried particularly hard to stop them, she had said something, at some point. It was enough for at least the confessing boy to remember it. She, too, looked surprised at my words, and for a fraction of a second, her face softened. Sincerely. She caught herself starting to smile at me and quickly stopped. Her eye rolls continued again in what seemed more like nervous reaction than indifference now, and honestly, who was I to blame her? She had a tougher-than-nails "look" that might invite most people who look like me, a Caucasian 40-something female, to assume the worst of her, regardless how unfair and undeserved that is. But I wanted her to know that I saw her. I saw her effort.
Unsure what else to do, I followed them the rest of the way to their apartment complex, including the boy playing chicken, who'd been watching our exchange from about a quarter of a block away on the other side of the street. They knew I was behind them. I wanted to ensure they'd get home safely. From time to time, they'd glance over their shoulders, looking somewhat annoyed that I was still there, driving two miles per hour as they hustled down the sidewalk as quickly as they could. Well, three of them looked annoyed. The boy who confessed looked genuinely relieved that I was still there.
I didn't get another chance to attempt to connect to the boy playing chicken. I didn't do anything to encourage him to do better; to behave differently tomorrow. If anything, I may have contributed to his game. I'm deeply sorry that I screwed up my chance to connect with him, however that might've looked in that moment. He couldn't have felt empathy from me because it's not what I demonstrated, regardless what I was feeling. I want him to know that not all of "us" who are older, who have different color skin, or are in some official or unofficial role of authority, are out to make his life miserable in whatever way he envisioned it.
I'm thankful for the opportunity to connect with the boy who needed to confess, and to whatever extent we did, the girl, too.
I don't share this story because of the part that went better than the rest, but instead, to share that my "default" in an emergency wasn't what it should have been. It wasn't what I'd have hoped or guessed it would be. I need to practice. We all need to actively practice compassion if we can ever hope that it might become our default. We don't always get a second chance.
Perhaps the boy playing chicken would've blown me off regardless, even if I'd done everything right. I think what would've been different, though, is that he'd have seen a stranger show him compassion. I can hope that it might've stuck with him, and that whether at age 10 or sometime later in his life, he'd have remembered that someone tried to connect. We've all needed that one person at some point in our lives, haven't we? Maybe he has a hundred loving people trying to connect to him every day and I simply caught him in an "off" moment. I just don't know. But I'm darn well going to keep practicing so that kindness and compassion become my default. Alienating a child isn't ever going to bring him closer.
Maybe the boy who confessed was already feeling uncomfortable about participating in the game of chicken. His nerves had to be in overdrive after lying down in a busy street. Maybe it was just dumb luck that he said what he did, and he would've confessed to anyone, in any circumstance. I doubt it, though. When we began our exchange, his outward expression was only that of defensiveness. I'm willing to wager that showing compassion rather than anger broke down a barrier and started the healing process. I can hope so, anyway.
In any case, my child and I drove home, then. For the rest of the day, including as her feverish head rested on her pillow while she drifted off to sleep that night, she kept repeating, "Why was that boy lying down in the road?" She's been asking ever since. The situation has been looping in her five-year-old mind as much as it has in mine.
I wish I had the right answer for her. I wish the world weren't like this. But my goodness, if we can't really connect and help kids feel emotionally safe in our presence, what can we do?
We can keep working on it. That's what we can do. We can practice in the moments when we don't need it to save up for the moments when we do. I'm darn well going to keep practicing so that kindness and compassion become my default. I promise to do that, with nothing but gratitude to the boy who showed me that I need to do better.
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** Although "I-Messages" aren't the specific focus of this book, the concepts therein helped me with boundary setting and communication with children in general. I definitely still draw from it today, as I did in the scenario above. For the book that gave me the specific tools and ways to present "I-Messages" during the exchange with the boy who confessed, click here. I find the tools therein helpful not only for parenting, but for close relationships in general.
To see all the cooking, child-, and parenting-related items that have stood the test of time in my house, including my favorite books, click here. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.
For the past week, I've attended a multi-age outdoor school led by Teacher Tom, who's hailed by parenting experts as one of the "world’s leading practitioners of 'democratic play-based' education."* If you haven't followed his blog or bought his book, you should, and if you can attend his class, even better. Although I exceed the age limit for his class (wait, I don't look 5?), the cooperative model mandates that I spend at least some time working there while my child attends. Since my child wants me to stay at school all the time and it's too far for me to drive home while she's in class, and because I like it there, I stay. All good.
If you know anything about him (or if you don't, now you will), it's that he spends a lot of time observing and engaging with the kids. As an observer myself, it's easy to see how this role suits him. But what does observing Teacher Tom have to do with gentle parenting? Nothing, directly. Besides, he doesn't fit the "gentle parent" poster image some people have in their heads. He's not all hugs and feel-goods. As far as I can tell, he doesn't even shave his face every day (isn't that in the rule book?). So, if he's not raising your kid (and he's not), what does he do that's so special or different that it warrants your attention? Here's what I've witnessed:
He "gets" them and speaks their language. On the first day of class, he picked up a tiara from the playground dirt (where most of the valuable jewels are kept) and put it on his head. A little girl pointed out that he was wearing it backwards. He fixed his error, and shortly thereafter, someone tried to yank it right off him. My adult brain assumed he'd relinquish it (adults are polite, right?), but instead, he respectfully claimed ownership of it and wouldn't share. He wasn't done with it yet.
Without any lecture or adult-infused words about taking turns, he ingratiated himself as one of their tribe by doing what many of them would've done. I wondered if his refusal would be off-putting to the kids, but instead, he'd built credibility. He taught fairness without having to "teach" a thing. Many of us fall victim to playing as adults play: borderline fun, but kind of hung up on enforcing rules. We manufacture "teachable moments" and do our best to stay clean. If building connection is your gentle parenting goal, just look at this guy and the way kids flock to him (I've dubbed the kids his Merry Band of Followers). We take ourselves far too seriously.
Teacher Tom reminds us that we have our kids' permission to act like actual kids.
Red cape or not, I've seen Teacher Tom leap over a tall play structure in a single bound and break up a heated altercation between young boys. To the extent that he plays like the kids do, he's also clearly in charge. He sets limits and holds them unapologetically. Fairly. Respectfully. He's firm without shaming or creating guilt. He corrects behavior immediately when he witnesses a transgression, and then like water off a proverbial duck's back, he goes on playing. There's no room for grudges. They're counterproductive. In following through with his limits without waffling, he builds yet another kind of credibility.
Kids know they can trust him to help when they need him. They don't wonder whether he's a reliable leader; they know he is. As gentle parents, it's easy to second-guess the limits we set in the tough moments and come off as wishy washy. However, no one thrives on shaky ground. Without sacrificing kindness, Teacher Tom reminds us that it's okay to be firm and direct. And then move on.
Teacher Tom challenged the kids to fill a large open canister on wheels, which was at the top of a small concrete hill, with water. Then, they'd experiment to see what would happen when they released it. The kids obliged, lugging bucketful after bucketful of water up, up, up to Teacher Tom, who was sitting most of the way up the hill. He emptied their buckets into it. Once it was finally full to the brim, Teacher Tom counted down for the Big Release. We all waited with eager anticipation. As quickly as the water-filled canister started picking up speed, it stopped just as suddenly,
catching on something, and proceeding to launch aaalllllll the water directly onto him. He was drenched in dirty playground water. His response: "That. Was. Awesome." And he laughed from his belly, just as amused by the surprise ending as the rest of us. He instinctively saw the situation from the kids' point of view; there was nothing to reprimand. What a great reminder that we're teaching our kids how to react when things don't go as planned; what a great way to model resilience.
Before I met Teacher Tom, I didn't know whether to expect him to be some combination of Superman and Mary Poppins (would he wear the cape and have the magical flying umbrella?), or if I expected some Dad-Gone-Rogue-Who-Never-Left-The-Playground. What I observed, though, is that while he's kind of those things, he's foremost really quite human. And you know what, gentle parents? That's really what your kids need most—the ability to see you as a real, true, reliable, flawed, predictable, and regular person who, with any luck, continues to put kindness first.
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We were every cliché: she spilled her milk all over the table and was using her fingers to spread it into a big and messy design; I was already waaaay late making dinner. I was feeling anxious and frustrated, and struggling to be mindful of the positive parenting ideas from part one of this article. (Yep, I'm human, too.) Forget "don't cry over spilled milk"—I just wanted her to stop it.
Doing my best to manage my frustration but failing pretty miserably, I heard myself ask impatiently, "What are you doing?" It was a ridiculous question. My eyes work. I could see what she was doing. Fortunately, she overlooked my tone and simply responded, "I'm doing what the book said. I'm turning an 'oops' into something beautiful!" (afflinks) Oh. That's right! I taught her that positive outlook from a book, and I did it intentionally there in that gentle parenting-driven exchange (cough, cough, ahem...I wish).
As it turns out, I had just gotten lucky. As expert Kelly Matthews of A Place for You Early Childhood Consulting suggests (and as she learned from her mentor, Deb Curtis), "Don't get mad, get curious!" Wow, what a paradigm shift, and what a wonderful mantra for the heat of the moment! I'll admit that when I'm in a tough place mentally, my default is sometimes frustration. When I'm in that mental state, I don't always assume the best of my child's intentions. That's my problem, though, and not hers. Oftentimes, she's simply exploring something in an age-appropriate way* that my adult brain has forgotten; wondering how something works rather than trying to break it.
Before you think I'm saying you should never be angry or frustrated, let me clarify. All your emotions are valid. Anger and frustration serve a necessary purpose—they're your built-in warning system that a boundary has been crossed, no matter the source. In addition, anger often covers up other emotions that warrant exploring, if you can imagine anger as the tip of a complex iceberg**. It's critical that you be able to express your anger in productive ways. So, the questions become how you process and express it, and what you can do to maintain gentle parenting even when you're upset.
In the toughest moments, when gentle parenting seems impossible, you can try a few things to ground yourself:
Take two seconds and remember those wise words: "Don't get mad, get curious." Consider the possibility that you might be missing some information that would change your perspective. Case in point: my girl's attempt to "fix" her spill by turning it into art. Incidentally, after writing this article, I read the best chapter I've ever read about anger and other big feelings. Although I wish the book's title were different, since, in my opinion, the information applies waaaaay beyond little kids, Positive Discipline for Preschoolers is an incredible resource. It's hugely insightful and offers a host of helpful ideas for you and your child.
I can't overestimate the power of looking into your child's eyes. Before you say anything at all, get on your child's level and look directly into his gaze. It's much easier to feel upset with another person when you're in fight or flight mode and looking at a mess / the back of your child's head / anything that doesn't drive empathy. Conversely, it's much easier to feel compassion toward another person when you're looking him in the eye. Drs. Seigel and Bryson suggest getting even lower than your child's eye level to remove the intimidation factor (details in their book).
This type of "look me in the eye" is completely different than how many of us were raised, where a threat was attached to it. This is an effort to rebuild connection, regardless who was wronged in the tough situation through which you're working. Genuine, sincere eye contact "in the moment" can diffuse all sorts of negativity. Moreover, eye contact on a regular basis is connection technique that lasts. Practice it genuinely and authentically. The more you practice really seeing your child and connecting visually in the good moments, the more of a default it will be in the bad ones.
Now, it's (maybe) time to say something to your child. Some of us naturally yell when we're upset. Others of us, don't. Either way, we all have a "mad voice," and our kids recognize it. For the record, I don't write "inside voice" to sound patronizing; rather, I use it because we've all heard it, so it's easy to remember. No matter your volume, when you're ready to talk, speak to your child much more quietly than you normally would. If you're thinking, "...but my kids don't listen unless I yell," I'd challenge you to rock their worlds—and get their attention—by doing the opposite of what you normally do. Even if you're naturally soft spoken, whispering (or using a quiet voice) takes intimidation off the table and helps you connect to your child.
From an evolutionary perspective, yelling raises adrenaline and helped earlier humans prepare their bodies to fight. We certainly weren’t going to reason with a saber tooth tiger. So, to the extent that yelling can actually increase your anger*** rather than quell it, whispering can automatically reduce the adrenaline that fuels it. A quieter voice than usual, then, makes you calmer and may reduce your child's resistance to what you're saying. Win/win. Note, if you're seething and whisper-yelling through gritted teeth, skip to idea #4 and try this again when you're ready. Ground yourself first. See the footnotes for the science behind this.
Too triggered to connect? Rather than sending your child away (which I don't advocate regardless), let her know that you're upset and that you need to calm down. It's okay to use those words; you're modeling real feelings and the need we all have for space to process. Your tone can reflect your feelings here; model authenticity. Make sure she's in a safe place and assure her that you're coming back soon. Of course, stay within a safe distance if your child is young.
Taking time to compose yourself is always preferable to saying or doing something you'll regret later. Avoid labeling your reason for distance as being because of something your child did (which can result in shame); rather, model it as a healthy way to cool off when you're too triggered to speak calmly. "I feel..." statements work well here (as in, "I feel frustrated and need to go into the bedroom to calm down, but I'll be back in a minute."). For little kids who don't yet understand time as we do, it helps to give them a frame of reference they understand, such as, "I'll be back by the time you could sing the ABC song three times." When you're in a calmer place, go back to your child and try idea #3 again.
It's easy to stay mad about a situation when you're still looking right at it. Maybe something your child did triggered you; maybe he said something that pushed you over the edge (or maybe, just maybe, the issue was just yours but it manifested in him). If you're still feeling triggered, invite your child to another location to discuss what happened and how to improve things for the future.
Best case scenario, you head outside together to talk about it. Fresh air is amazing medicine. Or, your approach might simply be, using collaborative language, "Let's go sit on the floor together in the living room and work through this." (Unusual locations can give you a new perspective mentally, strange as it sounds.) Physically removing yourself from the place where you had your most visceral reaction can be tremendously helpful for your psyche. It's literally neutral territory. A change of scenery can help you see more clearly before you work through whatever happens next. Refrain from creating a "danger zone" where you simply move your child elsewhere for so-called punishment; this is intended to be a safe space for you both.
Extend grace to your child, just as you hope others will for you. Oh, yeah. And breathe. Anger has a place in parenting, just like it does in all relationships. Fortunately, a strong connection can overcome the tough moments. And with gentle parenting, you can demonstrate effective and loving ways to help your kids navigate it in their own lives.
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**Source: https://www.gottman.com/blog/the-anger-iceberg/
*** Source: http://www.apa.org/monitor/nov04/hormones.aspx
We've all had that class—the one we were required to take to fill some requirement, but had absolutely no interest in taking. For me, it was a summer class during grad school. It was called "Miscommunication," and I agreed--it must've been some incredible misunderstanding that I wasn't at the beach. However, as much as it pains me to admit it, that wise old professor taught me some of the most important lessons I've learned in life. And I use them every single day as a parent.
One of the most profound of his statements was this: If you have a good relationship in your life, do everything in your power to preserve it. If there's one "big picture" concept that applies to all relationships, that's it. Studies show that in adult relationships, it takes at least five good interactions to compensate for a single bad one*.
Of course, parent/child relationships have some inherent differences, but the general science still applies. Moreover, our time with our kids is limited, and their impressions of us are forming with every interaction. This is the time we have to build (or rebuild) trust that we're on their side, as Dr. Gordon Neufield explains in this powerful book (afflinks). Even knowing this, parenting is hard. Parenting gently, for many of us, is harder. With all the stressors adults bear, trying to keep it together and parent "right" (whatever that means) can be exhausting.
So, how do you manage to keep your interactions with your kid positive and preserve this ever-so-critical relationship? Where can you find the patience?
I'm not going to suggest self-care the way many other parenting articles do. For those of you who benefit from a spa day or girls' (or guys') night out, that's awesome. If they work for you, by all means, do those things. For me, however, those suggestions only added to my stress. I didn’t want to do the things the articles said I should do. When I read that those were the keys to finding patience with my kid, they just didn't resonate.
My suggestion: take care of yourself by knowing yourself.
If time away from your child recharges your batteries, take time away and enjoy it without guilt. If time away doesn’t bring you peace, you don’t have to go out. You have permission to go. And you have permission to stay home. This is about finding peace for you, not for your next door neighbor.
The more people told me I "had to get out" when my child was little, the more I felt ashamed that I was getting something (else) wrong. It took me awhile to get comfortable enough in my parenting skin to figure out that my outlets for stress are spending time with like-minded parents (together with our kids), and writing. Are those things sexy? Not particularly, but they're me, and they make me happy. Your outlets for stress relief don't have to look "right" to others from the outside. Your way works. Find it. Trust it. Then do it. Being in a good place emotionally—feeling recharged—naturally increases your patience.
A very wise person I know recently reminded a group of adults that "You're raising your son's sons; you're raising your daughter's daughters." The way you interact with your children today will form the "hard wiring" that their brains create and will retain for the automatic responses that come when they're raising their own kids someday. Know your impact. Internalizing that is powerful.
If you can, remember it when your toddler is taking 20 minutes to put on his own shoe; when your daughter is taking forever to finish a song she's been working on before she comes to the table for dinner. Remember, especially when your child is in the most difficult of moods, that you have the power to respond with patience and grace. Be aware that you're teaching your child how to treat his or her children someday. Model the patience you want them to have.
Reflect on who raised you. You have the gift of being able to actively choose what you want to emulate and what you want to avoid. Remember details of the times you felt the safest and most loved; actively choose to repeat history in those ways.
I recently spoke with a friend who was concerned about letting her daughter into her bedroom at night to sleep in a little "nest" of pillows she'd made on the floor. It went against my friend's self-imposed rule that kids need to stay in their own rooms, which had been her parents' rule, too. She then confided in me that one of her warmest memories of her mother was when she'd let her sneak into her room and sleep on the floor next to her parents' bed. As she spoke, I observed her visibly soften when she realized what a gift she could give her little girl by letting her in sometimes.
Review the "rule book" in your head and see if any of those rules might just be written in pencil. Keep the boundaries you need; examine where you can start anew with some fresh ideas that might bring you and your child closer. Feelings of closeness inherently create space for patience with your kids.
One of the wonderful things about our brains is the concept of neuroplasticity: we can create new habits. Our automatic responses today don't have to be the ones to which we default a year from now. You can learn more about this in one of my favorite parenting books by Drs. Siegel and Bryson.
Your children are hard wired to want a good relationship with you. Parents, too, are naturally inclined to love the little people whose lives are entrusted to them. It all starts out exactly as it should. This is, or has the potential to be, one of the very best relationships in your entire life. And in theirs. You have a wonderful ability to preserve it.
For ideas of how to stay calm when you're smack-dab in the middle of a tricky moment with your child, read on to part two of this article. And exhale. You've got this.
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* https://www.gottman.com/blog/the-magic-relationship-ratio-according-science/
Ice cream for breakfast; impromptu gifts; cookies for lunch; no responsibilities ever; cake for dinner...oops...hold on...that's my wish list, and I'm supposed to be writing about kids.
A lot of people think positive parenting means giving children everything they ask for (i.e., permissive parenting). If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that, I'd be able to buy a crazy-ton of ice cream. That said, and as my child will readily tell you, there are plenty of limits in our house. And sadly, we don't have ice cream for breakfast every day.
Many years ago, I took an executive negotiation class that completely changed my perspective on "no." It's been one of the best parenting tools I've learned.
Who’d have thought executive negotiation tactics would double as positive parenting tools? Before anyone worries that I'm suggesting children should negotiate everything with their parents, I'm not. I strongly believe, however, that the words we use with our children become their inner dialogue as they grow. As a result, I suggest is open respectful dialogue with our kids regardless of their ages.
Our messages and tone stick with them. I see evidence of that in my own child in the ways she matures and processes various situations. The world will give her plenty of no's (heck, it already does), so I choose to teach her optimism and hope as tools for resiliency. And more than that, there's plenty of Internet-searchable evidence that authoritarian ("my way or the highway") parenting causes substantially more harm than good.
Now that that's out of the way, I'm paraphrasing the executive negotiation class I took and translating it to real-life scenarios for raising kids.
Here are the key takeaways:
If you know you're going to a store that has things your child will ask for but you're not planning to buy them today, offer a preemptive alternative. Different from a "negative no," which might sound like this, "We're going to the store now, but you're not getting anything," spin it a different way. Try this: "We're going to the store now. If you see something you like while we're there, remind me to take a picture of it. We'll put it on your list." Helpful hint: Building your child's trust that something is actually going on his list might not happen overnight. When you do buy something for him at a later date, it helps to verbally add something like, "I remembered that time we went shopping and you put it on your list. That's how I knew you'd like it." Reinforce that you've paid attention.
People (big and little) often feel the most defensive when they feel they have no control over a situation. With my child, when it's time to get out of the pool (or off the swings, or whatever), I know better than to spring the news on her and expect immediate compliance. Fair warning helps everyone involved. That said, for a child who can't tell time, "We're leaving in five minutes" would be meaningless, but in some situations, it can be helpful for older kids. If your child wants to keep doing what he's doing but your answer is no, reduce your child's resistance by trying this: "It's almost time to go. You pick a number (or give a range you can manage, especially if your child knows lots of numbers). I'll count to that number while you finish what you're doing, and then we'll go. What number would you like?" For what seemed like forever, the highest number my child knew was 31. Counting to her "biggest number" helped her feel like we were staying for the maximum amount of time in her universe of numbers, and the glimmer in her eyes as I counted proved how she loved having that influence on our day.
Sometimes, there really isn't a way to accommodate your child's request when she wants something. That's fine. Give her peace of mind by telling her when her request (or a version thereof) will happen, instead. Example: she wants chocolate chips on her French toast. Try this: "Chocolate chips really are delicious! Although I'm not putting them on your breakfast this morning, how about if we plan to make that pumpkin chocolate chip bread you like this weekend?" Again, the part you own is making good on the alternative you've suggested. Build trust that you'll follow through. If she wants to go somewhere you can't go right now, intentionally let her watch you put in on the calendar for a day you can go. There's a world of difference for a child between hearing you say, "Sure, another time," which he likely translates as "Maybe never," and "Yes, let's put it on the calendar together. Come look with me for our first available day." Moreover, apply this to little things while you're building trust in this area. Nothing is too small when it's important to your child.
Sometimes, when I'm tired or impatient, I hear myself bark, "No, stop that!" What I fail to teach in those moments, though, is why it's important for my child to change course. Unless it's an urgent safety issue, find a positive way to redirect your child. Little and big kids need this. A better option for a little kid might be, for example, "That's the floor. Let's find some paper for you to color on, instead." For a bigger kid, try, "Hmmm, it's getting close to dinner time, so let's stay inside now and make a plan to go back out tomorrow." I hear myself say, "Let's make a plan..." a lot when the timing or approach my child is using isn't workable for me. Choose your words wisely.
Note that in all of these examples, there's no unreasonable negotiating, no cajoling, and no bribing: we’re shopping, but not buying what you want today; you need to stop doing what you're doing; we're not having chocolate chips today.
BUT, if you work to find a “yes” that you can offer, you might find that: "Yes, we can do that tomorrow."and"We're all done with it for today, but let's make a plan to do it again in the morning!"and"Let's wave at the playground as we walk past it today and tell it we'll see it on Thursday!"and"Yes, the next time we're at the store, you can pick some out."
When all else fails, in executive negotiation terms, find your BANTA (Best Alternative to a Negotiated Agreement). BANTA means that even if you can't reach agreement with your child, you can still find something to agree on, even if it's agreeing that it's hard to not get what he wants. Sometimes, no just needs to be no.
Offer empathy while your child emotionally processes the limit. It's normal for her to get upset sometimes, and you don't need to "fix" it; just help her understand that you're on her side (even when you disagree). Feel her perspective; internalize it. Sit quietly with her while she expresses her disappointment, just listening and understanding, without justifying or defending your position. Be loving in your "no." Stay with her. Hear her. As always, examine whether you can say "yes," and say it as often as possible. Sometimes, I catch myself saying no because, gulp, I have the Parental Power to Say No, and I don't even know why I've said it. When I think about it objectively, though, I realize how much more often I can say "yes." And do you know what I've learned? Many things, actually—and among them, that chocolate chips are sometimes an excellent alternative to syrup on French toast.
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You might also like: The Positive Parenting Version of Counting to Three
A couple of weeks ago, my four-year-old child was looking admiringly at the cover of a Cinderella coloring book. She's had it for half her life. Until now, she'd always been more interested in the scenes overall than in the individual princesses. And she's certainly never addressed anything about her body image. This time, however, she matter-of-factly announced, "Mommy, this girl is the most beautiful girl in the world. I'm not that beautiful."
I paused, with a sinking feeling in my gut, to absorb the news that the inevitable had happened. My child was comparing her looks to others'--even if the "other" was Cinderella--and finding hers inferior. Her tone was one of factual observation more than one of self-deprecation. However, I knew it was the precursor to what women everywhere are up against: the pressure to look whatever way society thinks is beautiful. People judge us on our appearances alone; people who don’t even know us, much less love us.
This mama's wish--and the wish of nearly every other mama I know--is that our children would live in a world that rises above that mentality. With my heart in my stomach, I took a breath before responding. Doing my best to summon everything I've studied about respectful parenting as it relates to body image, I neutrally responded, "Baby girl, that's interesting. Tell me more."
She proceeded to tell me everything she found lovely about Cinderella. When she finished, I acknowledged her closing statement with "Yes, I like the color of her dress, too." I continued, "Do you know what I really like, that you can’t see in any picture? In fact, I think it's what makes someone truly beautiful, more than anything else could."
"What is that, Mommy?"
"Kindness. Some people say it's nice to look a certain way on the outside, but kindness is the greatest kind of beauty. It has nothing to do with what someone looks like. Unlike appearance, which changes over time, kindness can last someone's entire life."
"Oh."
I could tell she was processing thoughtfully. We lingered on the topic for only a few moments more. I was careful to avoid giving the topic of external body image too much attention, lest it become a priority in her mind. As a mom, positive body image is one of the issues that I really need to own and model, and that I really want to get right for my child. It's a tough one for many of us.
After that, weeks passed without another mention of beauty. Yesterday, however, she approached me, holding the brooch of one of her dress-up gowns. On the brooch was a picture of Cinderella. I wondered what was coming.
My heart swelled with joy. Indeed, physical beauty and body image will be on my daughter's radar if she's anything like most of the women in generations before her. And she may or may not grow up looking anything like a princess, but that's not important to me.
Hard as it had been not to tell her how beautiful I think she is, I knew the importance of acknowledging what she said without negating it.
As a woman and particularly as a mother, this has been a tough lesson to learn. I have, however, learned that when I actively listen, be it about princesses or anything that's important to her, it helps foster our connection and build her confidence that she can trust me with her innermost thoughts.
So, I listened to her and added to her understanding, helping her unwrap her feelings. I wanted the opportunity to make a positive impression on her value system. The most effective way to do that is by listening to her with an open mind and guiding her appropriately. Loving and intentional guidance works so much better than telling her she's wrong.
We really can influence children’s thought processes and body image respectfully while still supporting their inner princesses—or superheroes—whoever they may be. We can help them absorb what really matters. And that, my friends, is beautiful.
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