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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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One of the most common concerns I hear from parents who are attempting gentle parenting isn't whether they're doing this, that, or the other thing right. Although we all have questions about how to manage certain aspects of gentle parenting, it's not usually the daily how-to's that make us consider throwing in the towel. One of the toughest concerns many of us manage, as gentle parents, is the lack of support we feel for the way we're raising our children. Surrounded by naysayers, we often not only fear, but also hear, that we're doing it wrong: "My parents spanked me and I turned out fine.""Kids need to toughen up.”“You're coddling her.""You'll make him a mama's boy.""She'll never be able to handle school when she's older if you keep treating her this way." And the list goes on (and on, and on...). With every kindness we impart to our children, there seems to be someone--perhaps even a very well meaning someone who has the best of intentions--who wishes you would just do things differently. And it's hard. It's hard when the stranger at the grocery store comments negatively about your parenting. It's hard when a well-meaning friend "helpfully" suggests you try something that just doesn't sit right with you. It's hard when your parents suggest you're doing it wrong, and wow, it's really hard if your own partner dismisses or flat-out opposes your gentle parenting style. Believe me, I get it. (I was just looking for apples, not advice.)
I'm here to tell you that the words you hear others say don't need to become the ones you repeat inside your head.
You've done your research, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that positive discipline is more beneficial to your kids' long-term mental health than punitive or authoritarian methods. You're trusting your gut. You're watching your child grow and thrive under the forces of goodness and kindness. Yet, it's still tempting to listen to those who plant a seed of doubt in your mind, bringing up every insecurity you've ever had about raising your child in the way that feels right to you. My suggestion to you is to take a deep breath and let go of your worry. It's not serving you. If you can, find at least one supporter--be it someone you know in person, or even just an online gentle parenting group (yep, this one counts). The moment I let go of my anxiety about gentle parenting happened shortly after I moved to a new city. I was taking a long walk with my child, who was then 18 months old. We got pretty far from home and were walking along a busy street. All of a sudden, she wanted to nurse. I panicked, since there was nowhere private and we were too far from anywhere I felt "comfortable." Most of my friends in my old city, if they'd nursed at all, had weaned long before a year, and although I knew the World Health Organization recommends nursing at least two years for mamas who can (even in developed countries like the U.S.), I still worried that my child was "too old," much less to nurse publicly. That said, it soon became obvious that it had to happen, so down I sat on a bench along the sidewalk, doing my very best to be discreet. Suddenly, a man who looked to be about 85 years old started walking our direction. I rearranged my daughter's large sunhat to cover us both as much as possible, thinking he didn't see us as he passed. A few moments later, though, he turned back to us and then (gasp!) walked back our way. Ever so humbly and respectfully, he said, "You know, I have no idea why people get so upset about mothers nursing their children. You're just doing the most natural thing in the world." Then he turned around and kept walking away. From that moment on, it didn't matter what the strangers at the grocery store said, or anyone else for that matter. I let his words become my inner voice, not only for nurturing my child as I had been in the moment he saw us, but also for gentle parenting overall. After all, gentle parenting comes in many forms.
Treating children with love and respect is, indeed, the most natural thing in the world. Why wouldn't it be?
Find your advocate if you need one. Be your own advocate if you have no other, and know that with or without support, many others have persevered and continued to gently raise loving, happy children. And most importantly, know that by choosing gentle parenting, you're being your child's advocate and positively affecting the generations to come. It's okay to normalize kindness. The world needs more of it, and you're doing your part. You're doing it right.
There's a little boy in Teacher Tom's multi-age summer school whose name isn't Jimmy, but I'm saying it is to protect his privacy. Jimmy is quite little, as in, he still has to wear a sticker on his back that reads, "Please take me to the bathroom at 2 p.m." He can't be any older than his potty checking time. However, he's surrounded by older kids who don't need stickers on their backs; they've more experience with such things.
Jimmy had been working for almost two weeks to figure out how to climb into the tire swing. It's plenty short enough for him, but by virtue of being a tire swing, it not only sways but also spins when he touches it. Tricky.
Well, today, he succeeded in climbing in by himself for the first time. He looked incredibly proud. However, he immediately encountered a new problem. How would he make it go?
In this new conundrum, he called to Teacher Tom as one would: "Push." He was soft spoken and polite about it; somewhat bewildered to find himself with another new challenge so soon. He'd achieved step one but knew that someone had to do something more.
In response, Teacher Tom warmly yet factually replied, "That swing isn't moving." And he stayed right where he was, watching Jimmy. Now, this is the really tricky part. If Teacher Tom were to respond to every request for a push / a pull / a whatever-it-is, he'd have to be in about 20 places at once, rather than doing his job. Of course he helps kids in need; that is his job. But he doesn't always help them in the way they ask. Sometimes, his best teaching tool is simply waiting to see what the kids can figure out.
In this case, by giving Jimmy his full attention and acknowledging his request for a push, Jimmy likely felt heard. What happened next, though, was an unexpected plot twist.
By not jumping to Jimmy's aide as many would, he opened a door to greater possibilities. Indeed, Jimmy succeeded in conveying his message. What also happened is that another student who's name (isn't) Kate—a highly sensitive child who's disinclined to engage with other kids, and who liberally applies what some would call selective mutism—well, she heard the request, too. To the surprise of those who know her, she piped up, "I can push you, Jimmy!" And to his rescue she came. She helped that little boy swing for a good ten minutes.
So, yeah, Jimmy got the push he desired. Jimmy was happy for climbing in, in the first place. That was his victory. What also happened, perhaps more notably, is that Teacher Tom's "wait and see" approach facilitated very natural cooperation and fostered community among the children.
Kate, a child who wouldn't normally jump into a social scene, saw an opportunity to not only connect in a way where she felt safe emotionally, but also to lend a hand. In doing so, she proved to herself that she could. My guess is that the message will stick with her and manifest in other positive ways throughout her week, and perhaps much longer.
Now, there were two distinctly proud smiles on the playground; one from a child who was swinging high after a mighty climb, and one from a child who got to demonstrate her bravery in a new and unexpected way.
Sometimes the hardest thing we can do, as a parent, is wait to see what happens. And sometimes our kids' best confidence comes from being given the opportunity to grow.
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/
From the backseat of the car, my daughter asked me to tell her a story. Since we were on the way to her annual well child exam, I wondered if she was seeking a virtual role play in which the heroine of my story would be on her way to the doctor, too. So, sure enough, Kittenpants (the heroine of most of our stories lately, name chosen by my child) was, indeed, about to get her checkup and had some doctor anxiety. As I continued, my child kept asking for more detail. My hunch had been correct. She very much wanted to know what she was about to get into, but safely first, through a story.
Even for me, as an adult, I have some doctor anxiety. However, I actually like going to the dentist. My theory is that, with a young child, relaxing in the dental chair is about the longest I ever have to "do nothing". I digress; I know doctors and dentists, alike, cause anxiety for a lot of humans, especially the young ones who have fewer years of experience with them. If your kiddo lacks enthusiasm when it's doctor or dentist time, what's a gentle parent to do? We all have to go to these appointments sometimes, right? Some of these ideas might help you and your child:
And take him along to observe. Rather than having someone care for your child while you're at your appointments, let him see you undergo many of the same processes he'll encounter when it's his turn. There's a lot to be said for desensitization to reduce dentist and doctor anxiety; the more you expose him to a situation, the less foreign, and less scary, it might be (particularly when there's no threat to him). Did I take my daughter into surgery with me last summer? Heck no, of course not. But she comes with me to every physical, every sick visit, and every routine maintenance activity I schedule. The more she can get comfortable with the concept of doctors in general, the easier it is when it's her turn. A couple of doctors have even offered to have her "help" with my checkups, to which she gladly agrees (only in kid-safe ways, such as using the stethoscope). Talk about removing the fear factor! To the extent that you can, eliminate your child's fear of the unknown. Before her appointment, let her know what to expect there. Recall what she's seen, and talk her through what she hasn't.
Look for a doctor or dentist who your kid seems to like and who shows respect for her, even during "non-negotiable" parts of the visit. Even very young kids have strong feelings about who they like and don't. To the extent possible, follow their lead. If your child has an ear infection but won't let Dr. Amazing look in her ears, see if said doctor will perform the exam while your child is in the safety of your arms. This can substantially reduce your child's doctor anxiety. If that's not feasible, stand next to her exam table while you touch her reassuringly. If your doctor's approach is "my way or the highway," it might not be the best fit. I don't know about you, but if a person 4x my size approached me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable and my caretaker let him, I'd have a problem with that. The procedure might need to happen, but the provider's approach and demeanor should be a peaceful and collaborative one. There are plenty of fish in the proverbial sea, and that applies to medical professionals, too. Find the best match for each of your children. This isn't your doctor; it's theirs.
Recently, a 9-year-old boy I know named Théo went to the dentist and needed a filling. He was scared of the novocaine shot. After working past it and successfully getting his cavity filled, the dentist chided him and asked if it was worth him having been afraid. Théo maturely responded, "I couldn't have been brave without first having been scared. Courage without fear is merely indifference." Wow, I couldn't love his response more if it were baked in a cake! It's absolutely okay to be scared; it's a biologically normal and healthy response to many situations. Fear serves a purpose in keeping us safe. Does that mean you should say to your child, "Yes, you should be nervous! It's so scary at the dentist!" No, absolutely not. What it does mean, however, is that your child needs to know you hear him without judgment, and without your trying to talk him out of his feelings. Try this: "I understand. I hear that you're nervous. I'll be there to support you." Feeling understood can help relieve anxiety*.
Pay attention to the messages that you inadvertently send about your doctor and dental visits. If all your child ever hears you say is how much you hate going, he'll internalize your doctor anxiety and save those feelings for when it's his turn. Moreover, let your child decide how he feels about each part of the visit. The first time my child saw me give blood, she saw me look away (I can't watch), but she got as close to my blood-giving arm as the phlebotomist would let her. She was fascinated. The next time she saw a needle, she stared right at it as her doctor gave her a shot. She didn't cry. (Whaaaat? Whose child is this?) I was shocked, but relieved that I hadn't projected my own needle-anxiety upon her. After the fact, she told me that it had hurt a bit, but my worries about how she'd handle it far exceeded the stress of the actual event.
If laughter is the best medicine and your child is still young enough, role play it out in the silliest ways you know how, while staying "true-ish" to real doctor-like scenarios. Her truck needs its blood pressure checked; her toy tomato has a fever. When my daughter was three, she kept coming to me to cure her "chronic case of the 3s," during which she responded to every question and every part of my "medical" exam by yelling "THREE!" She thought it was hilarious, even when she was getting pretend shots that somehow made her "condition" worse.
"Just the facts, ma'am." For the record, I'd rather get a shot in the nose than be called "ma'am," but the expression, like it or not, is a memorable reminder that it is what it is: a doctor visit. In the case of things like shots or other "painful" events, explain what will happen, but in neutral, textbook-like terms. You're the provider of information; your child gets to process and judge the information in whatever ways work best for him. Before shots, I remind my child that "Sometimes they hurt temporarily, but then they feel better very soon. Sometimes, they don't hurt at all. Either way, I'll be with you for the entire visit." Neutral. Confident. Peaceful. For little or big kids, but especially if your child is older, read age-appropriate books about doctors or types of medical things that interest them. Pick up a book (or watch a non-scary video) about some aspect of medicine that might interest her. Learn about it, and perhaps come up with a question of interest to save for the "real" doctor or dentist. Empower your child with age-appropriate information. Tell her you're going to the appointment with enough time to prepare for it mentally. No surprises.
From an anxiety perspective, we can all get caught up in the fear of the upcoming visit. Remind your child, by having a specific after-the-visit plan, that life goes on, on the other side of the appointment. Have an “after” idea that’s not conditional or a bribe. Instead of, "If you do well at the doctor, we can go to the park," try, "I have an idea--after the doctor visit today, let's plan to go to the park. It's fun to have something to look forward to later in the day." Having something good to anticipate can help ground your child (and you, too). Most of all, let your child take refuge in the emotional safety that you can provide, before the appointment, during it, and after she survives it. Assure her that you're right there with her, and will continue to be, just as you always are. * Source: The Center for Stress and Anxiety Management, http://csamsandiego.com/blog/2016/5/26/how-to-listen-when-someone-you-love-is-struggling
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