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At one of the schools I have the pleasure of visiting regularly, this week's craft table featured what the teacher appropriately called the "paper guillotine," along with some glue and paper. At one point, an unsuspecting adult walked over and saw the setup. She inquired, only half-jokingly, "Oh, is this the table where you slice off your finger and then glue it right back on?" I laughed, albeit a little nervously. I admit I wondered the same thing when I first saw the guillotine. These are four- and five-year-olds using a very sharp tool, after all. However, I trust the kids' teacher implicitly, so if the paper guillotine is out, we go with it (with appropriate supervision).

Every week, I hear adults guide children as well as they can to help ensure their safety and well-being. What troubles me, though, is that despite their unquestionably good intentions, I all too often hear the adults telling the kids what not to do, without further comment or guidance. With all the time I spend in child-focused settings (schools and otherwise), I often get firsthand insight into the kids' experiences.

The "nots" and "don'ts" serve a valid purpose in our adult brains. They convey to our kids what they aren't supposed to do. They also leave me feeling really, well, deflated at the end of the day. And the adults aren't correcting me. They're correcting the kids. What's intended as helpful correction sometimes comes across as criticism and disapproval, and the kids' self-confidence simply can't thrive in that environment.*

Keep reading, though, because we can fix this.

To be sure, kids need guidance. They need discipline in the sense of "teaching," along with clear boundaries. And they need support while they figure out what we adults expect of them. Janet Lansbury, early childhood expert, writes extensively about the different forms boundaries take and how to navigate them with your kids, while building their self-confidence. Although she often writes about toddlers, the concepts she unpacked for me in this life-changing book still apply long after toddlerhood (afflinks). This is another great book that's full of practical suggestions and real-life scenarios.

That said, the tricky part is that just by virtue of being kids, they're, um, new here. To Earth. Their brains are still figuring out all sorts of things the rest of us have known for awhile. And in their defense, while many of them can and do understand what not to do, they still need help connecting the dots to what they should do, instead. Even school-age children have only been in school for a short time, and they're still figuring out how the rules and communication styles differ from person to person; classroom to classroom.

And in almost all the places where I see adults (both teachers and parents) interacting with children, I see all sorts of completely avoidable emotional strife. If we adults tweak our approach just a bit, it can remove any doubt in the child's mind about what we really want from them, while helping grow their self-confidence. We can make life easier for them and for ourselves. Who wants unnecessary conflict, anyway?

Here's what I've seen some of the best adult-leaders (teachers and parents) do that works beautifully. As the mother of my own child, I'm trying to emulate these concepts.

Three Ways to Talk to a Child to Build Her Self-Confidence

1. Flip Your Wording to Tell Kids What To Do

Every time you feel a "don't" or a "stop" message about to come out of your mouth, replace it with the opposite, positive statement. Rather than "Don't push," try, "Please keep your hands to yourself." If it helps you practice until it comes naturally, you can add the "do." Example: "Please do keep your hands to yourself." Instead of, "Stop throwing papers on the floor," try, "Please keep papers on the table." "Please walk" is just as easy to say as "Don't run," but the emotional tone is much more empowering. The child will know exactly what to do.

It's amazing how much less defensively kids (and, ahem, adults) respond when they're given positive instructions rather than directives that imply they're about to misbehave, even when they're doing everything right. From what I've witnessed, it makes a huge difference in the tone of the room, be it a classroom or at home.

2. Set Clear Expectations Without Conditions

A common pitfall I observe is when adults get the positive wording right, but then they attach a threat or consequence to it. For example, "Keep the crayons in the box or I'll have to take them away." Unfortunately, this approach strengthens kids' self-confidence no better than negative instructions do. Both activate the same part of the brain that signals danger, and it's hard to thrive that way. An example of what would convey the same message without the threat would be, "The crayons are for later, so please leave them in the box. First, it's time for a story."

3. Catch Kids Doing Something Right

I love it when I hear an adult call out kids who are doing something right. The catch here is to avoid indirectly shaming the kids who aren't doing it right, but rather, to build trust that we see kids in all their goodness. I love hearing, "Hey, I noticed how everyone in the class was quiet while I was explaining our activity today. I really appreciate that." Or, quietly to a child in the classroom, "Matty, I noticed you kept your hands to yourself today. Thanks for doing that." Alternatively, at home, "Thank you so much for cleaning up your spill without me asking you to do it! You sure do know how to help around here. I appreciate you."

I love how kids glow when they hear that they're getting things right.

We all want to do the right thing. Even the youngest of us do. 

In the class with the paper guillotine, what worked beautifully was this: "This tool is really sharp. The only thing that can go under the blade is paper. Keep your fingers out from under it when you push down on the lever." I'm happy to report that no fingers or other appendages became victims of the paper guillotine that day. All of the kids knew exactly what to do with the tool, because they'd been told what to do with it. We took the time to clearly and positively instruct them. Everyone who tried it appeared to find it fascinating, and dare I say, fun. Every single one of the kids went in giving the machine the side-eye, but knowing what to do, their self-confidence grew when it worked.

Raising our own children can be a lot like that: seemingly kind of scary at first, but when everyone figures out what to do, life can really go quite smoothly. The more we practice positive parenting, the more our confidence in the process can grow. And with peaceful smiles on our faces, we'll watch our kids' self-confidence soar.

________________________________________________________________________

*Source: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/compassion-matters/201106/your-child-s-self-esteem-starts-you

Every week, I help teach a dance class. And every week for the past three months, six-year-old Lexi (not her real name) has had to be first in line when the children await their dance props (scarves and whatnot). When it's time to line up, she'll push other kids out of the way to get the prime spot. When she's dancing on stage and someone has a more desirable position than hers, she'll inch her way into the other dancer's space, slowly edging her out until she's right where she wants to be. Some of this can be very normal in child development. It's frustrating at times and certainly not how all kids develop, but normal for some children, nonetheless.

And up until last Monday, the kids in dance class had been finding ways to coexist with her without too much strife. I chalked it up to the world needing both leaders and followers. Some people are just a bit trickier than others.

Most kids naturally learn how to deal with different personalities.

Last week, however, Lexi was particularly rough when barreling over some of the other girls. This time, they didn't like it. And the more they tried to work with (and around her), the more determined she became.

Try as I might to stay patient and let them work it out, I was getting frustrated with this girl.

When I'm busy with a lot of kids, it's sometimes hard to remember that children usually know exactly what they need. They often know what would help remedy their undesirable behavior. Fortunately, I saw the struggling child in front of me, along with the opportunity to facilitate. So, I pulled her aside, hoping she'd take a shot at figuring out how to be fair to the other girls.

Kids are usually quite adept at peacefully working through their challenges when we give them the space to try. I wanted to treat her as a problem-solving partner.

At first when I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to leave the stage with me for a moment, she furrowed her brow and crossed her arms, clearly in a defensive posture. She followed me, and we sat side-by-side on a stair. Starting with a problem statement, I told her, "I'm seeing lots of sad faces on lots of girls today. It seems that many of them want to have a turn being first in line."

She paused, looking momentarily perplexed. It seemed as if she were expecting me to chew her out.

I continued, "I wonder what we could do to keep it fair for everyone. Let's talk about some ideas."

Observing a wave of relief wash over her when she realized I was engaging her peacefully, she replied, "Oh, I know! We could make a list of everyone's names and then take turns, going down the list, to see who goes first."

Smiling, I told her I thought that seemed really reasonable.

And then I promptly ruined the moment by saying something about the "need to be fair" in a way that she could have perceived as condescending, which was exactly the opposite of what I hoped to do. Grrr. I felt instant remorse, but it was too late.

She continued just as she had before, pushing and clamoring over others to be first.

I heard myself wonder more than once, "What in the world is going on with her?"

And then it dawned on me. I should ask her.

As I've written about before, 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.”

I'm decent (not perfect, but decent) at "getting curious" when it's my own child, but I'd forgotten this sage advice in a busy room full of movement and noise. Fortunately, that wisdom returned to me while I still had another chance to try it.

I pulled Lexi aside again. Her demeanor wasn't much better than the first time I'd done it. I don't blame her. But I stated factually, "It seems like something is hard for you today. I'm here if you'd like to talk about it."

And this time, she sat me down on the stairs, girls moving all around us. She seemed oblivious to them. She proceeded to tell me how she "never" gets to be first for anything at home: she has an older brother, and "he's the meanest". In her words, he never lets her do anything, and her parents always side with him because he's older and "knows more." She reinforced how hard that is before adding that she was missing her Mom.

I sat quietly, listening.

She continued that her Mom has been gone for awhile, visiting her Grandma far away. And her Grandma is dying. And she doesn't really know what that means, but she knows she misses her Mom and doesn't know why she can't come home to be with her.

On she went, citing all her very real troubles. Suddenly it made perfect sense why she was acting out here in class.

She didn't need shaming, lectures, or punishment; she needed connection. She needed someone to listen.

Understanding children's behavior happens best when we connect with them. When she was done sharing her story, I simply nodded, said I understood, and asked if she'd like a hug. She said yes. And then she wanted another. After that, she ran off, back to the group, and then out the door as class was ending.

For the next week until class met again, I wondered about her.

And then it was class time again.

I said nothing. However, I made sure to smile and go out of my way to say I was glad to see her. She told me about her new loose tooth (it's her first one!).

I observed that every time the girls lined up at the wall, she put herself third in line. Always exactly third. She didn't push anyone or do anything that would cause a teacher to raise an eyebrow.

As I've written about before, I know the importance of catching her doing something right.

So, at the end of class, I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Hey, I wanted to let you know I saw how hard you worked to keep class fair for everyone today. You let others go first. I see the effort you made. Thank you so much."

She smiled sincerely and added, "Yes, and I even offered my purple dancing scarf to another girl who I know likes purple, even though it's my favorite color!" She switched from smiling to all-out beaming, proud of herself. As she should be.

I get a lot of things wrong, but I do my best to assimilate what I've learned from other wise parents and teachers. I don't take credit for anything here--all I did was listen to Lexi. It's the simplest idea; the simplest way to connect. And as it turns out, that's exactly, and all, she needed.

*

Update: Three more weeks have passed. She runs up to me and says hello every time she sees me. Her tooth is still loose, and her cooperation in class continues to be stellar (with no prompting whatsoever). Connection works, friends. I'm so proud of her. 

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.

One of the things I learned is that logic doesn't always "fix" childhood fear; in fact, it rarely does. Sure, if we're using our rational mind, it does. But the part of our brains that processes fear rationally doesn't reach maturity until about age 25*.

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.

First, I had to learn how to actively listen to childhood fears.

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.

With this, I learned to play out her childhood fears. 

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.

After that, we graduated to the next level: diffusing the fear.

"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.

I learned how important it was to trust her timing.

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.

All that fear came undone in a single moment; a single awakening.

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.

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. 

Due to my Mom’s work as an international model and actress, I spent most of my formative years surrounded by some of the World’s Most Beautiful People. Some, like my Mom, just happened to be beautiful on the inside, too, but that certainly wasn’t the case for everyone. Couple my surroundings with my passion for ballet and the level of fitness that ballet requires, along with normal peer pressure to look good, and I developed kind of a skewed perception of what makes a beautiful body. Sure, I had enough self-esteem to get by, but it was tricky territory.

With that as the backdrop, I’ve been very intentional with my daughter about the subjects of beauty and self-confidence. Although I’m not a model for magazines, I most certainly am her role model. I’m her Mommy. When she sees me look at my face or body in the mirror, I want her to see a woman who accepts every bit of her physical self (or, at least, a woman who’s gentle with herself).

My only option, as I see it, is to demonstrate what self-esteem looks like and hope she’ll follow suit.

Awhile back, I wrote about my daughter’s and my first “official” discussion about beauty and its effect on her self-esteem. Ever since that day, we’ve openly and often talked about healthy bodies, exercise, and nutrition. We read wonderful books about liking ourselves (afflink), and as far as I can tell, she’s growing in self-love and confidence. Most of all, we’ve discussed inner beauty. Focusing on the qualities that contribute to who we are and what we believe is so much more important than how we look. That’s what matters, right? All the external stuff is fleeting.

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Like it or not, though, exterior beauty comes up---even when we minimize its importance at home.

My child has seen me put on makeup and has asked me why I do it. I work to keep my answer as low key as possible. I’ve never mentioned wanting too look or feel prettier. I’ve intentionally divorced it from how I depict self-worth. I usually say something along the lines of “I just like to wear it,” or “I’ve worn it since I was young, so it’s habit.” Up until today, she acted as if she bought it.

I should’ve known better. Kids always seem to know when there’s more to the story.

As I waited for her to finish her breakfast today, I pulled out my makeup bag at the table and started applying concealer.

“Why are you doing that, Mommy?”

I replied with one of my trusty fallback lines.

To my surprise, she responded, “Mommy, I don’t think you need it to be more beautiful. I think you’re pretty just as you are. What matters is that you’re kind, and you’re kind with or without makeup.”

My heart melted at her sweet statement. Shortly thereafter, my inner voice replied, “But I still need makeup.” Outwardly, I just looked at her and smiled. I thanked her.

I know I’ve never told her that I wear it to make myself prettier. I sincerely don’t know where she got the idea.

Of course, she knows what makeup is for. Or rather, what society told us it’s for.

Holding my lipstick in limbo halfway between my makeup bag and my face, I thought about what she was really saying. I realized that she was watching closely to see whether I agreed or disagreed with her. Despite what I tell her, what makes me feel good about my appearance? Is it something internal or external? I knew this would be one of those “teachable moments” about self-esteem and self-worth.

At the risk of sounding completely vain, I struggled briefly with what to do. I mentally catalogued who we’d see that day, and to what extent I wanted to look “a certain way.” Now, my “certain way” is fine, but I stress–I’m quite regular looking and currently quite sun deprived.

I paused. Then, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I said, “You’re right. I don’t need makeup to be pretty.”

And we went about our day, both of us makeup-less and genuinely happy about it–-her, because she’s little, and me, because I’m her role model. If I’m going to tell her that what matters most is inner beauty, then I need to live it, especially when she’s watching. And asking.

This was a test. It didn’t matter who we’d see today.

It was about whether I’m comfortable in my own skin, and whether I actually mean what I’ve been teaching her about beauty.

We both know I’ll wear makeup again, and that’s fine, too. Sometimes I’ll even put on fancy jewelry or break out my “good jeans” (hey, I’m a Mom).

I felt more free today than I have for awhile–not because I lacked makeup, but because my child gave me an opportunity to overthrow my old way of thinking. There’s nothing I “need” to do just because I’ve always done it. She helped me escape my own hypocrisy, telling her one thing but holding myself to a different standard. I’m thankful that my daughter continues to teach me what’s really important. I’m glad she’s holding me to what I attempt to teach her about self-esteem. She has every right to do that.

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.

As soon as we're old enough to realize it, we see these things that affect our body image and self-worth. And we judge ourselves accordingly.

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.

"Mommy, do you know what? Cinderella looks a lot like me! I wonder if she's kind, like I am."

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.

Letting her speak freely teaches her that her voice and her opinion matter, even when I disagree with her.

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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