When my daughter was three years old, I didn't think anything about fostering childhood resilience when it came to Halloween. For some reason that's unbeknownst to me, she decided that what people do with Halloween candy is...donate it. Who was I to argue with her thoughtful idea? So, for the past two years, we've gathered up her loot and handed it off to a grateful recipient.
I somehow assumed that this is what she'd want to do with it forever. Yeah, just call me naive and we'll get on with things, shall we? In any case, we started Halloween today with our standard plan to donate her candy. She was completely on board.
So, off we went to our downtown "Safe Halloween" where local businesses open their doors to the kids and their parents for a couple of hours, doling out all the good stuff. Now, what makes the "good stuff" tricky for us is that my kiddo has food allergies, so donating her candy has always eliminated any risk to her safety. The Teal Pumpkin Project helps somewhat, but not everyone knows about it or chooses to participate.
When we were done trick-or-treating, however, she crawled into the backseat of my car, opened her big paper bag, and took a quick whiff of the contents of the sugar-filled booty. I glanced back at her after another minute, and although her hands were still on the outside, her head had disappeared almost entirely into the bag. It smelled good. That's when I started to realize that this year might be
different. She might not want to donate the good smells.
When we got home, she inquired while holding up one of her goodies, "Mommy, can you please read the ingredients to this one?" Suddenly, I realized we were on a very slippery slope. What had been an easy fix to a problem wasn't going to work this year. Since reading The Bugabees (which I love for kids with food allergies), she's learned to ask what's in the food to which she's exposed. (Afflink) That's wonderful.
For better or worse, however, most commercial candies simply aren't options for her health-wise. To compensate for that, we have alternate "safe" treats at our house, usually healthy options. She'd broken off a square of dark chocolate during lunch at home just a few hours earlier as a special treat.
With all that in mind, I read the ingredients. She quickly self-identified that the candy she chose wouldn't work for her. And then she mourned.
Empathizing, I told her, "I saw how much you really wanted that candy. The feelings I'm guessing you have right now are disappointment and sadness. You can tell me if I'm wrong." It helps kids to give names to feelings to help build emotional intelligence. Dr. John Gottman writes about this, along with a lot of other really insightful suggestions, in this book. It's best when children can name the emotions themselves, but that doesn't always work when they're emotionally flooded. She agreed that I'd guessed correctly.
After holding her and telling her I understood (truly, I do), I realized that this would be another teachable moment. I had to wait, of course, until her brain could find logic and reason, as this important book by Drs. Seigel and Bryson so clearly illustrates. One of the lessons I've learned, though, is that she learns best
when I give her the space to solve problems for herself--while I fully support her emotionally along the way. This is a life skill she needs.
Knowing the rest of her loot would be similar, I offered, "I wonder what we could do to make the rest of the candy less tempting. Let's think about this." And then I waited, just a bit longer than where I felt comfortable. It's usually in that uncomfortable moment when she suggests something.
"I have an idea, Mommy."
"What is it?"
"Let's make it a science experiment. You grab a bowl and put some hot water in it; I'll put the candy in it and see what happens."
We proceeded to make a warm, gooey, good-smelling experiment while sitting in the middle of our kitchen floor. I hadn't thought of the idea. She had. And when she did, she bought in completely. We marveled at which ones floated or sank, and which ones bubbled (I'm never eating that kind again). She solved the problem in a way that will undoubtedly stay with her much longer than anything I'd have suggested, would have. And I believe she learned something about her own resilience.
Although I don't know if this candy-plan will work again next year, what I do know is this: she's capable of figuring it out. She's strong. I love that she has opportunities to see this.
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Most kids have inherently good negotiation skills. Pull out a chocolate bar and tell kids to divide it up for themselves, and you'll find quick proof of that. When it comes to conflict resolution and self-regulation, however, many adults wonder whether children possess the emotional intelligence and executive functioning skills to navigate that territory. As a result, many grown-ups are quick to intervene and solve social problems for them. After all, emotions are tricky even for us to manage, so it's tempting to guide our kids when we sense trouble. I know because I've done it.
I'll share an example of how much better it can work when kids figure out how to resolve conflict for themselves, however. When I was in a play-based science class with a group of four- to six-year-olds last week, they made "squishy circuits," where they connected two sets of wires, Play Dough, and mini-lightbulbs to the positive and negative ends of batteries in a particular sequence. If they connected everything correctly, the lightbulbs would light up.
Adults were there to help ensure the kids' safety, of course. (Personally, I'm thankful for observing Teacher Tom in action at another school I visit weekly. He's a world renowned teacher at a play-based preschool in Seattle. He's helped me chill considerably about what I consider dangerous for kids, and he facilitates conflict resolution better than any teacher I've ever seen.)
Once the kids got the hang of basic circuitry, they could get as creative as they wanted with their Play Dough inventions. One five-year-old girl who I'll call Catherine, who regularly displays high emotional intelligence and emotional self regulation, announced that she was going to use her Play Dough to make a kitty with a water bowl. Often demonstrating strong executive functioning skills, she's a "stick to the plan" kind of kid. (Executive functioning includes things like self-control, planning, and the ability to remember instructions. If you're looking for a deeper understanding of executive functioning and self-regulation, this article from Harvard's Center for the Developing Child describes them well.) So, she set to work right away while most of the other kids rolled their materials around haphazardly, deciding what to make.
After about 10 minutes, the girl next to Catherine, another five-year-old I'll call Mia, reached over and demolished Catherine's kitty. I've observed that Mia sometimes lacks the executive function skills to self-regulate. Looking flabbergasted, Catherine called me over to help resolve the conflict, announcing matter-of-factly what Mia had done. It was obvious. Catherine's blue Play Dough that Mia squashed was still in the center of Mia's palm. Mia had been using green.
Before I could say a word, Mia announced loudly, "I didn't do anything wrong!"
I felt tempted to call Mia out on her transgression and show my frustration. My first impulse was to ask her what the heck she was thinking. (I'm still learning and have to catch myself, too.) However, I know an objective tone is more helpful for encouraging honest dialogue. So, I took a breath and stated neutrally to both of them, "It sounds like something happened here." Mia has older siblings at home, and I know she's no stranger to managing conflict situations. I can't say with certainty, however, where she is on developing her executive functioning skills.
Dealing with conflict is a hard life skill to learn, because frankly, negative emotions are hard. I'm an adult and I still don't like conflict. We're not "wired" to like it. However, the ability to recognize someone else's point of view goes a long way toward developing emotional intelligence and self-regulation.
So, I continued.
Me, in a curious and non-accusatory tone: "Mia, I observe blue Play Dough in your hands. I'm feeling curious about that."
Mia: "Well, I did squash her kitty, but she had just started working on it. She didn't care."
Catherine: "I didn't just start working on it. I had been working on it the whole time! It was important to me."
Me: "Hmmm. Catherine, I hear you saying that it was important to you."
Being an active listener, including playing back what you've heard, is a key ingredient in helping kids resolve conflicts. It shows that you're internalizing what they said, and essentially invites them to continue while feeling supported. Accusation is counterproductive; only when kids feel supported can they grow their emotional intelligence effectively.
And as is true with many things, when it comes to engaging in kids' conflicts, less is more. Less adult talking is more beneficial to kids learning to solve problems on their own. When they feel capable of doing that, it reinforces growth in the self-regulation and executive functioning parts of their brains.
Catherine and Mia continued without prompting.
Catherine, addressing me: "I really didn't feel so happy when she did that."
Mia, to Catherine: "No, you were happy."
Catherine: "No, I really didn't feel so happy when you did that."
Mia: "Oh." Mia's eyes went downcast then with apparent remorse, and perhaps with understanding the deeper connection between emotions and behavior.
At that point, they sat together silently, in what seemed to be somewhere between an impasse and emotional connection. I paused for long enough that I was sure each had finished saying her piece. When neither continued, I suggested next steps without solving anything for them, similar to creating a negotiated agreement in a boardroom.
Me: "I'm going to guess that nobody in the room likes getting their Play Dough squashed. I'm wondering if that's true."
Both girls, agreeing: "Yeah. No one should squash Play Dough."
Me: "Okay, then. I think you've solved a problem. Since no one likes getting their stuff squashed, I wonder if we can agree not to squash anyone else's stuff, either." (I essentially played back the solution they'd reached, just broadening it slightly.)
Both girls, nodding vigorously: "Yeah. Let's do that. No squashing people's stuff!" I could almost see the self-regulation synapses connecting in Mia's brain. Moreover, Catherine's emotional intelligence was growing by having expressed her frustration in an appropriate way. She felt "heard" and could move on. Her emotions had no reason to escalate. Executive functioning in action.
All of us: Exhale. Resolution. Consensus.
Both girls seemed resolved in the matter. Their conflict was now water under the bridge. They moved forward happily with their projects.
I fully trust that their self-identified conflict resolution did far more for their executive functioning skills than any punishment or forced apology could have.
And the sooner we let them try, the better. Studies show that practice between the ages of three and five is particularly beneficial. This is also the age that their working memory develops in leaps and bounds, so that they'll have specific experiences upon which to draw as they get older. Areas of the brain that develop during this timeframe are profound and substantially important for future interactions. Some would argue that the ability to self regulate and strong emotional intelligence skills matter far more than IQ alone.
Socially skilled kids can focus attention on managing conflict and growing their relationships with peers. It's possible because they already have the emotional intelligence and self-regulation tools in place to do those things. Conversely, those with executive functioning issues need more practice. The adults in their lives will support them best by resisting the urge to dive in and rescue them when they see any type of conflict; but rather, by letting them attempt their own conflict resolution, even if they get it wrong. Practice makes perfect, right? Our presence is beneficial and sometimes necessary, but our words should be few.
Maybe emotions are tricky for adults to manage because some of us didn't get enough practice when we were kids. I don't know. What I do know anecdotally, however, is that emotionally intelligent kids usually grow up to be emotionally intelligent people (adult-sized, because, of course, kids are people, too). The ability to understand and manage emotions, resolve conflict, and display emotional intelligence is a lifelong gift to ourselves and those around us.
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"Mommy, let's pretend this isn't a train tunnel."
"Okay, what is it?"
"It's a tomb."
Well, hello, conversation stopper. She paused for effect, which is a good thing, because I certainly didn't expect that. After a moment to process and very consciously trust that children's play serves an important purpose for them, I mentally cringed while inquiring, "Is anyone in there?"
"Yep, a dead person."
She smiled lovingly at me, just content to be playing.
I have to admit that this already wasn't my favorite game, and although I didn't know who was inside, I was hoping for some miraculous resurrection of sorts.
"Was it anyone we know?"
"Nope, it's not. It's just some man. He's dead in there."
Well, at least it's no imaginary person we know. Somehow that made it better for me, the adult who should be able to handle a child's imagination.
Still, I waited for the punchline and trusting her play, looking for some clue as to where this was going.
"What happened to him?" I asked tentatively.
"A cow sat on him. And then a car drove on top of the cow."
Well, that would certainly do it. Although she knows bodies stop working when someone dies, we haven't spent much time discussing the specific mechanics of the process.
Then, she added, "Yeah, he was really, really old, like Grandpa Herb."
Click. Now, I see what's happening. Grandpa Herb is actually my grandfather; her great grandfather. As I write this, he's a 95-year-old with a body that's more ready to go than his brain is.
I reminded her that Grandpa Herb is still alive, but she proceeded me to remind me that he's "really, really old and probably won't live much longer."
He might have another decade ahead of him, but he might not. She's bright enough (as kids are) to pick up on pieces of the adult conversations to know that we talk about his life and medical situations differently than we do others'.
Just like we do as adults, kids need to process when change is coming; especially when it's such an abstract concept as this (for all of us). We rarely discuss death with children unless it's necessary, so it's particularly foreign to them when it happens. We can read helpful books like this one and this one (afflinks) to help cover the bases. I can trust that her play is helping her process just as she needs to. And she can ask all the questions she wants to, and I'll do my best to answer them according to our belief system. Of course, I can't tell her what dying is like, though, because it's never happened to me.
So, until then, we find ways to make peace with the unknown. We need to somehow make the intangible, tangible. We need to know that when the time comes, we'll have done something to prepare, because we all want to do something.
Some might call this "game" macabre and make that resurrection manifest somehow, or insist that it's a train tunnel and nothing more. For us, it became a way to process and discuss one of life's Big Topics, using the means my child knows best: learning through play. It's within her power to play; the more she can process it in her own terms without me imposing my agenda on her, the more she can begin to grasp and reconcile the concept. And the more she can be ready for the inevitable, be it for Grandpa Herb or for a goldfish, the less jarring it will be for this child.
Personally, I'm going to beware of sitting cows for awhile. More than that, however, I'll continue to trust that play needs to happen, exactly as it is.
Knowing her grandparents will soon be asking for gift ideas for our daughter, my husband and I decided to take our five year old window shopping today. As usual and as I've written about before, we began with the caveat that although we wouldn't buy anything, we'd take pictures of what she likes so that we're sure to remember. This approach has pretty much been golden for us since she was two, and learning to delay gratification has contributed well to her growth mindset.
Today, however, she was really short on sleep. Even for me, an adult, a lack of sleep thwarts even the very best laid plans. Still, we pursued our endeavor to leave the house.
Upon entering the store, our child uncharacteristically said, "I've decided we're not just going to look at toys. We're going to buy some for me today to take home." I gently and clearly reminded her of our mission. And I hoped for the best.
We made it past the greeting card aisle and into the craft aisle. On display with the crafts, they were selling a sewing machine for kids. She picked it up and announced, "This is what we're buying for me today. Let's go check out now."
I wish I had a dime for every time I'd seen a parent in a similar predicament. I'd be able to buy a thousand sewing machines. Regardless, this was really unlike her.
I acknowledged how much she wanted it and reminded her that we'd put it on her list. I took a picture of it, and for good measure, so did my husband.
She announced that she would carry it through the store with us until it was time to check out, and then we'd buy it. I let her know that she'd be welcome to carry it through the store, but that we'd put it back on the shelf before leaving. Setting expectations upfront usually does wonders for keeping things mutually agreeable. However, the "mutually" wasn't happening here today. So, I presented it as a loving limit and took the time to discuss and validate how she felt.
Sure enough, she chose to carry it through the store, anyway. She had no interest in looking at any other toys. We stopped to look at some decorations and at a few items for my husband, but that was it. She wanted to go no farther, though, so we returned to the craft aisle, the sewing machine still firmly in her grip.
We had nowhere else to be, so we did a bit of emotion coaching to help her. However, it was still a no-go for her. She said she'd wait there "forever" until we bought it. Taking it from her forcefully would do nothing for her emotional intelligence, our connection, or her growth mindset. So we waited, letting her feelings be what they were, and trusting that this was temporary.
After awhile, I asked her to think of a way she'd be willing to leave it at the store. Because she wasn't in an emotional place to think logically right then, I offered her the options of either putting it back right away or walking toward the exit while she held onto it, until we reached the checkout area. At that point, her option would be to hand it to my husband to put back before we reached the door. She chose the latter. And for whatever reason, she quickly put the sewing machine back on the shelf where it belonged. However, she grabbed a unicorn craft that was nearby and held onto it just as steadfastly.
However, near the checkout area, she changed her mind and wouldn't relinquish it. At that point, I shared a story with her about a time when I was little and didn't get a toy I wanted. Her demeanor changed. She softened. For the first time in awhile, she looked me in the eyes and connected. She felt understood.
Shortly thereafter, she offered, "I don't want to put it back on the shelf. I want to put it somewhere...else."
I replied, "It's too hard to take it back to the craft aisle. You want to put it somewhere different."
"Yes. I want to hide it and see if Daddy can find it."
Fortunately, because she's five, her hiding places often include instructions such as, "Please don't look behind the chair."
She looked resolved, proud of having solved the problem herself. All she needed was the time and emotional support to do it. So, off we set on a short mission to find the perfect hiding place for it. After testing a few options, she settled on setting it between the feet of a mannequin. She promptly informed her Daddy not to look there. (Daddy, of course, returned it to its proper place once we were out of sight, and she confirmed later that it was exactly what she'd wanted him to do.)
And off we went to the car; her, sad but accepting, growing in her ability to solve problems. Even among the shiny objects; even when sleep deprived, she found a way to do it that was mutually agreeable. We can both sleep well tonight.
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.
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.
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."
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?"
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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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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.
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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After finishing a two-week, multi-age summer class with Teacher Tom, who's an internationally respected teacher and writer, I asked my child what she thought he was really good at. She pondered my question for a moment and thoughtfully replied, "He's really good at sitting."
Well, shoot. At the risk of bragging, I'm a fine sitter, myself. Now that I know it's Teacher Tom's greatest strength (in her mind), I feel compelled to up my sitting game. Would any of you be up for a sitting challenge, or perhaps agree to be my sitting accountability partner?
The thing is, she's right, but in the most complimentary of ways. Case in point: Jimmy, about whom I’ve written before. His name isn't Jimmy, but I'm saying it is to protect his privacy. He's two.
Teacher Tom showed a broken tricycle to Jimmy and a bunch of other kids. Its seat had long since gone missing, leaving nothing but a flat metal bar in its place. The bike had bigger problems, though. The wheels, although still present on the playground, were no longer attached to it. As quickly as you read about the wheels, however, is how quickly another boy absconded with the back ones, using them to drive some invisible vehicle down a long and reasonably steep dirt hill toward parts unknown. By then, some of the children had lost interest in the few pieces of the bike that remained. Jimmy, however, held firm to the one remaining and detached front wheel, and Teacher Tom had an idea.
Despite usually letting kids figure out what loose parts represent, Teacher Tom said, "This is a steering wheel. One of you can use it to drive this wagon." He pointed to a trusty (and rather rusty) metal wagon that he, himself, used as a child. One of the older boys quickly accepted the challenge, but as soon as it started moving downhill, his expression turned to worry and he quickly abandoned the ride. He took the "steering wheel" with him to play elsewhere.
Jimmy, who was by far the youngest and smallest in the class, wasn't giving up on Teacher Tom's plan so easily. Confidently, he walked up to the wagon and said, "I try." It took him a bit of effort to climb in, but he made it. And then, like he did on the tire swing I wrote about in a previous article, he said, "Push."
The wagon wasn't moving on its own, despite pointing downward on the dirt hill. Teacher Tom replied in a respectful tone, "I'm not your Mom. Moms help people. I'm your teacher; teachers will teach you."
Lest I take offense to his comment (hey, I help and teach, don’t I?), his words resonated with Jimmy, and Jimmy started to thrust his body forward, engaging the wheels of the wagon. Holding the steering handle but not turning it, he drove straight into the backpacks that were hanging on the outdoor hooks. Not far. Soft landing.
Teacher Tom straightened the path of Jimmy's wagon and provided him with a brief tutorial about steering. Now, here I am, an adult who knows a thing or two about physics, and a thing or two about two-year-olds. My confidence wasn't great that Jimmy wouldn't end up in a pile of wood chips, or perhaps crash into a gaggle of other little humans. He didn't have a license to drive that thing.
But lo and behold, Jimmy steered correctly, and dang if he didn't make it all the way down the hill without using small bodies as speed bumps or taking out the garden along his way. He drove it...well. Yes, he drove it very well.
Then, looking pleased as a pumpkin, he got out easily and moved on.
So, yeah, Teacher Tom is good at sitting. My daughter is right. But she went on to clarify: "He's good at sitting and waiting to see if kids can figure things out. But if they need him, he helps them."
As parents, our job is to "sit" in a way that allows children to have the time to think critically, to solve problems on their own whenever possible, and to help them finish each day trusting themselves a bit more than they did the day before. They accomplish most of this, of course, through their critical work of play. That's the kind of sitting I want to do.