Same shirt, different size

Courtesy treehugger.com

The first thing I noticed was the young boy's shirt: it was exactly the same as one Munchkin has, albeit several sizes bigger. I felt the urge to approach The Mom, to tell her it was one of my favorite shirts, to forge a connection, to have a chuckle over kid stuff.

The occasion to act on this urge was interrupted by the first strained interaction between The Mom and Her Daughter. The 9 or 10 year-old girl was climbing the jungle gym while The Mom was pushing Her Son in the cool shirt on the swing. The Mom called out that they would be leaving soon. The daughter responded with a gesture and something I couldn't hear, something that The Mom must have heard before.

"Don't do that. That's disrespectful," The Mom called out in a sing-songy voice. Her Daughter kept climbing. A few minutes later Her Daughter joined them at the swings. I heard another tense exchange of unintelligible words before Her Daughter scuffed off towards the slide play structure.

 A toddler girl, close to Munchkin's age, was exploring the bottom rungs of the rope ladder up to the large slide. The Daughter moved close and must have put a hand on one of the upper rungs because The Mom immediately burst out with, "Get away from there!" Her Daughter mumbled an objection.

"You get away from there now! That little girl is using it. She's small and you're big." The toddler's mother was on the other side of the play structure, like me, casually observing the drama unfold. I couldn't tell if she said anything, but it didn't seem to matter to The Mom. The Mom suggested -- no, barked -- that Her Daughter should walk around to climb up from another point. Her Daughter remained sullen near the rope ladder and bleated something else I couldn't hear.

The Mom left Her Son on the swing and walked towards Her Daughter, wagging that big finger. "I said, you get away from there now. You're big and you need to leave her alone. We always look out for the little guy. Always!"

Her Daughter ignored The Mom's orders. She stood close to the rope ladder, head down, gently spreading out the wood chips with her foot. The Mom made a beeline for their gear and started packing up, coughing up more admonishments to Her Daughter. She instructed Her Son to get off the swing and get ready to leave. To Her Daughter across the playground, she yelled, "If you don't get away from there, I'm leaving!" Her Daughter did not move.

The toddler girl moved away from the ladder and went off to explore the swings where her mother sat watching. The Daughter seized the opportunity to climb the ladder now that the whole reason for avoidance was gone. The Mom hissed at her before she laid a hand on the rungs.

"But Mom, she's gone now..." Her Daughter moaned.

"I don't care! I told you to get away from there. You made the little girl leave. You made her mommy make her leave!"

My jaw dropped. I stopped listening to them. It only took a few minutes more for The Mom to gather Her Daughter and Son to leave the playground. Munchkin and I played quietly in the sand box. I turned to smile at the toddler's mother, rhythmically pushing the little girl on the swing. She smiled back. I heard the wind rustle in the trees and the soft cry of a hawk above.

Maybe I should have mentioned the shirt, I thought.

Learning To Work Through Frustration

Munchkin was futzing around, poking a stick into his box of balls. He must have been trying to get something out, or move the balls around, or some other inventive task that only a toddler finds captivating. I was doing my own futzing, dashing about here and there to get ready for our outing to the park. I heard him fuss, the usual whiny groan of exasperation. I waited. Usually he wails and asks for help right away. In the past, I often went to him quickly because his screeching grates on my nerves. Over time, however, I've been gradually extending the time before I offer him help. I'd like to give him a chance to work things out himself. I'd also like to give myself a chance to cope better with his cries without getting frustrated as well.

"I think you can do it," has been my new mantra. I encourage him to repeat the task on his own, at least if it is one that I am certain he is capable of doing. Yet so often, his frustration takes over.  His motor skills won't allow him to do whatever it is he is trying to do. This seems to upset him deeply. I know I can too, Mama. But my little hands just can't move that way! I imagine him thinking.

The ball and stick fiasco was one of those times when his frustration just escalated into sharp shrieks and woeful cries. I thought it was a good opportunity to help him with a coping skill that I use when I'm frustrated.

"Hey, will you look at me?" I went up close to Munchkin and made eye contact with him, arresting his focus away from the anger. "Look at me. Good. Now take a deep breath. (I demonstrate) Can you take a deep breath?" He imitated me and took a breath with obvious effort.

"Niiice. OK, now try again. I think you can do it." I gestured toward the stick and balls. "Oh, look, you did it!" A little, bouncy green ball popped out and Munchkin smiled with pride.

This is a scene we've played out over and over again, but not just with the ball and stick. It could be anything Munchkin is trying to do himself. Loud squeal. Mama breathes. Munchkin breathes. Try again. We've been working on it for months. I work on getting past my own frustration as I watch him learn to do the same.

On rough days, he can't quite ever get past the angst, and the poor guy collapses into my arms for solace and relief. I hold him through his anger, letting him cry or scream.  I want him to know that whether he succeeds or fails, whether he is angry at himself or the world, I am there for him and I love him. After a few moments, he recovers and we either return to the source of his frustration to conquer it or we find a new task. It's always his choice.

On good days, he remembers to slow down and breathe. He gets past the frustration. So do I.

Let Your Body Do the Shopping

The other day I had some precious time to run errands by myself.  I was exhausted and feeling pretty low. Our whole family had been sick, we were sleep-deprived, Munchkin had been whiny, cranky, over-sensitive and clingy, and I hadn't had much of a break for almost 2 weeks. Self-care had taken a backseat for too long. My reserves were tapped and I needed to nurture myself.

Courtesy art.com

I bought myself some personal supplies that I'd been needing for way too long (did I mention that  I'd neglected self-care?), then felt I wanted to get myself a little something extra. You know, something I didn't need, but something that would pamper me a bit.

I don't eat much junk food, but I do enjoy it, especially as a treat. So I eyed the candy aisle looking for something sweet and delectable, something to soothe my weary soul. There were literally dozens of items to choose from. A few caught my eye, and I even picked up one or two chocolates. Well, bags of chocolate. I realized that I only wanted one, not a whole bag. I just wanted a treat, not diabetes.

Then I slowed down. I fell back into myself, my tired, drained, worn-out self who desperately needed some TLC. I tuned into my body and felt the fatigue, the lingering sadness. Then a question popped into my mind as I examined each possible choice of treat:

"Is that going to make me feel better?"

I searched and searched. Obviously, I was in the wrong store, because the answer was a pervasive NO. I imagined how I would feel after consuming one of those "treats" and my body rejected each and every one. None of those bags of goodies spoke to me with love. None of those sweets had anything nice to say to my body, a body who was listening, watching, and waiting for sustenance.

It's not that I think all junk food is bad all the time, either. I eat ice-cream every Friday night! But good ice-cream, not garbage. The chocolates in that store were just garbage, though, and my body detected it. Thankfully, I was listening.

I left the store without a special treat and went home to enjoy the rest of my short break in silence and solitude. My body relished the peace, the almost foreign quiet. Thank you, I could almost hear it say.

Still wanting to spoil myself,  I grabbed a piece of high-quality, dark chocolate truffle from my own stash. Mmmmm. I savored it along with the last few minutes of solace before the boys came home. 

What's Wrong With Messy?

Courtesy Flickr

One of our local playgrounds has a delightful sandbox, fully equipped with a spigot of running water. The water splashes down through pavement and rocks, then enters the sandbox down below. Kids love to run over to push the button to activate the water, about 6 feet away, then dash back to splash in the water coming out. Sometimes the button gets stuck or kids push it repeatedly. Then the corner of the sandbox fills with water...enough water to splash feet, dig moats, and get very, very messy.

I've seen two patterns emerge at this sandbox, especially around the water. The most common one is the Forbidden Zone pattern. Toddlers and babies, in particular, are shuttled away from this Forbidden Zone of sand and water. Many of them never get a chance to touch either one. Some brave, well-meaning parents let their little ones explore a few moments, until the first splash of water gets on those oh-so-cute clothes. Then the game is over in a split second, ending with cries of defeat, loss, and frustration. From expressions on the parents' faces, I'm guessing they feel pretty deflated, too. 

The other pattern I've seen is one of Oh Well, Here We Go. Parents remove their child's shoes gently and sometimes pant legs get rolled up. Often these kids are accompanied by a few sand toys to share. They make their mess and when it's time to go, they use the running water to rinse off the sand. Some just play in the water the whole time, getting soaked to varying degrees. The only remorseful parting cries are those from the kid who wants to play longer.

Today I met one of these mothers who admitted to having once been a Forbidden Zone mom. I never would have guessed, watching her 3 year-old daughter romp in the wet sand, caked up to the knees. She didn't even bother taking off shoes or rolling up her pants. Instead, her mom helped fill the bucket with water over and over again. Munchkin and the little girl took turns pouring water through a funnel. Some of the water spilled all around them, some splashed in the sand, and a good portion splattered all over Munchkin and the little girl. The girl and her mother just kept filling the bucket for us. Eventually Munchkin and the little girl were wading ankle deep in sand and water, stomping, splashing, kicking.

"Wow, that's cool that you let her get all messy," I remarked to the girl's mom.

"Well, you know, if you'd talked to me 3 years ago, it'd be different. But eventually I thought, you know, why fight it? She loves getting messy!" the girl's mom explained.

I smiled deeply. I recognized the personal evolution. From Blech! What a mess! I don't want to clean that up! to What's wrong with messy? While I don't enjoy cleaning up Munchkin's relentless messes (spilled milk, pee on the floor, crushed cereal under foot, etc., etc.), I have gotten better at dealing with them. Thanks to a suggestion from Hobo Mama, I now exaggerate any annoyance to a point that just makes us both laugh. I also allow Munchkin ample opportunity to get messy within safe boundaries, like this park with the awesome sandbox.

Watching this woman and her sand-covered daughter reminded me of something else about messes and children: acceptance. It's amazing what a little acceptance will do for a mother. Of course, having a spare change of clothes handy helps, too.

What are your views on letting kids get messy? Please do tell, I'd love to hear from you!

When Gratitude is Better Than Praise

I try to avoid overuse and misuse of the phrase "Good job!" when talking to my son. This type of "empty" praise is a value judgment that can lead to an array of self-esteem, autonomy, and relationship issues (check out this article for a primer). Therefore, I'm always looking for more constructive and meaningful things to say. Like many great ideas, this one came about while I was on the, uh, porcelain throne...

Usually, I tend to let empty TP rolls pile up in the bathroom before I take them to the recycling bin because I get lazy or immediately distracted by my messy toddler. Once, I decided to give Munchkin a chance to do it for me while I was - ahem - occupied. When the toilet paper roll ran out, I handed it to him and asked if he could please take it to the recycling bin (if he could get me a new roll, that would be even better!). In our house, this task means carrying the empty roll down the hallway, through another room, opening a pocket door, putting the empty TP roll in the bin, then closing the pocket door using the hard-to-grab latch. This is a multiple-step task that requires dexterity, memory, and the ability to stay focused on task - no easy feat for a young toddler! I didn't really expect Munchkin to actually make it all the way to the recycling bin and back, at least not without unloading a stack of papers or other mess.  But I thought 2 minutes of privacy might be worth the chance.

To my surprise and delight, he did it! He placed the empty roll in the recycling bin, closed the door behind him and came back to inform me. I felt the urge to say, "Good job!" because I was so impressed. I resisted, although I'm sure I let out a "Wow, you did it!" When I realized I was also incredibly grateful for the help, I added, "Thank you, Munchkin! That's very helpful."

This got me thinking. I realized I had a new and incredibly valuable new tool in my arsenal of unconditional parenting techniques.

Instead of offering praise for Munchkin's helpful "achievements", I offer him gratitude and appreciation whenever appropriate. Anytime he "accomplishes" a skill or task, especially a new or difficult one, that is helpful to me or others in some way I say "Thank you, that's very helpful. I appreciate it." I don't exaggerate the gratitude, I just say it simply and honestly.

It makes so much sense. When an adult does me a favor, I don't flatter them by saying "Nice work, you're a good helper!" No, I say thank you. Why would I treat my toddler any differently? If I want to teach him to be helpful, it seems like being gracious and appreciative will go a lot further than telling him "good job." With honest gratitude from me, he may begin to feel the joy of giving instead of the joy of getting his ego stroked.

Here are a few examples of typical toddler situations where I find saying "thank you" is more appropriate than saying "good job":

·         putting waste in the trash, recycling bin, etc.

·         picking up toys

·         opening or closing a door

·         picking out shoes or clothes

·         putting clothes in the laundry bin

·         putting clothes in the washer or dryer

·         returning an item to its stored location after use

·         selecting an item from its location for use

·         carrying groceries or other items to or from the car or bike

·         helping wash vegetables

·         pouring rice into the rice cooker

·         when I ask "Can you help me to...?" and he is able to, and does

·         and of course...flushing the toilet

On the flip side, I avoid showing disappointment or disapproval if he can't or won't do the favor I've asked. After all, favors are just that - favors. They aren't obligations.

The best part is that it feels good to say thank you to him. It feels right. It feels genuine and real and respectful. I don't get that feeling from saying "good job."  I'm guessing he doesn't, either. With a healthy dose of genuine appreciation for his helpful efforts - not empty praise -  it's likely he will grow into someone who enjoys helping others.  And I bet he'll do a "good job" at that, too.

Do you have useful alternatives to saying "good job"?

Punishment and Praise at the Playground

The other day at the playground, I heard it happen again.  It came out in that pseudo-gentle, condescending tone with an understated, forced calm.

Courtesy Flickr

It was the threat of a "time-out".

Ineffective, invalidating, meaningless time-out.

"Uh-oh. Does someone need a time-out? Come over here and sit," the boy's mother said.

Little Tommy had cried because he wanted the ball in my son's hand. Tommy lay on the ground, quite upset. At his mother's prompt for a time-out, Tommy obediently moved over 3 feet from where he was crying, presumably into time-out position. His whining and complaining didn't stop, despite his mother's instructions to settle down. He repeatedly tried to move back towards me and Munchkin.

I offered my own words of validation for Tommy: "You want the ball, but Munchkin is having a turn right now. It's really hard to wait, isn't it? When he's done, you can have a turn." (incidentally, Tommy ended up waiting about 5 minutes, after which Munchkin happily gave him the ball).

I said nothing more, but I did have two immediate thoughts:

1) Tommy is two and a half. He's crying because he wants something he can't have at this moment.  Crying seems like a pretty natural and age-appropriate thing to do in the situation.

2) What behavior was he supposed to exhibit to in order prevent the time-out?

But I get it. His mother wants to teach him to interact nicely with other children, so she punished him for...what, exactly? For acting his age? For behaving in a "normal" but socially unacceptable way (for adults, that is)? For being sad?  Maybe his mom really just wanted him to withdraw from the situation, to find entertainment in something else. Maybe what she meant is that he should be patient while waiting for his turn. I wondered how Tommy interpreted the time-out.

About a half hour later, I heard something else that struck me just as hard. It came out in that mellifluous, exaggerated cheerleader voice, with an overstated, hyper-excited positive tone. 

It was praise.

Empty, blanketed, unattached praise.

"Good digging, Tommy!" the boy's mother exclaimed.

I watched silently and had two immediate thoughts:

1) He's two and a half. He's in a sandbox and has a shovel. Digging seems like a pretty natural thing to do in that situation.

2) What would "bad" digging look like? Is there a way for a toddler to dig in the sand that's incorrect or morally reprehensible?

 But I get it. His mom wanted to praise him for...what, exactly? For acting his age? For behaving in a "normal" and socially acceptable way? For having fun? Maybe she really just wanted to connect with him. Maybe what she meant was that she was happy to see him enjoying himself in the sand, not throwing it. I wondered how Tommy interpreted her remark.

Now, I can't read minds and I don't even know Tommy and his mother. But I'm pretty sure that without reading any research about the harm of both praise and punishment Tommy is already making his own conclusions about how he is treated. I imagine it's something like: Mommy isn't nice to me when I cry, but she's nice when I'm happy.

Or maybe he's reasoned: If I express my unhappiness about coveting another child's toy, then I make my mom uncomfortable. Instead, I should ask politely and then patiently wait my turn...or I'll end up in a time-out. If I'm having fun and not causing any trouble, then I make myself and my mommy happy... then she compliments me and I feel even better.

Sound crazy? Far-fetched? Too judgmental? Perhaps.

Like I said, I can't read minds. But I can wonder about the child's perspective.  And I do, I always wonder...

What are your thoughts? How do you think children perceive praise and punishment? Do their perceptions matter as much as parental control?

Even a Toddler Can Compromise

I had a breath-through "aha!" moment with Munchkin.  It was particularly encouraging because it happened on one those days of incessant whining, clinging and the repetitive "Mamamamamamama!"

I was trying to cook dinner, an often frustrating endeavor that occurs during the toddler witching hour. Munchkin was fed but still uninterested in occupying himself. Babywearing while cooking had been useless for over a year. Screen time didn't work (yes, I finally gave in to the dreaded screen). Parallel play with his own cookware, no dice.  No, he needed me. NOW. I felt my muscles tighten and my jaw clenched shut. We'd been through this so many times before.  I took a deep breath and fought back the familiar frustration. Can't I do anything for just 5 minutes?!

At one point, he put his hand on my leg. Usually, that makes me nervous when I'm cooking because I'm afraid I'll knock him over when I turn around or reach for something.  Instead of anxiety, however, I got a surprise visit from the gentle acceptance idea fairy.

"Here, come over here and hug my leg," I said as I stirred my saute. Munchkin quickly embraced my thigh and rested his head against the side of my leg. He squeezed me.  I continued stirring with one hand, then reached down with the other to caress his head. The fog-horn wail subsided into a hum. My shoulders loosened and I felt my nerves let go just a bit. We stood that way for a few minutes while I listened to the sizzling garlic and Munchkin's meek drone.  When the saute was done, I turned off the burner and picked him up before he had to ask again.

Yes, my son, we can compromise.

What are your special moments of learning to compromise with your child? 

A Tale of True Sharing

Munchkin toddled over to the small reading area in the children's section of the library, a spot where they keep the oversized stuffed animals. He slowed down as he entered the reading room when he saw a little girl, around 3 years old, sitting proudly on top of the giant teddy bear. She leapt up, said "Hi!" to me and briefly eyed Munchkin. I said hello and entered the room, moving to the side so that Munchkin could choose how and when to enter on his own. He and I both stood there for a moment watching the little girl. She had a Ziploc baggie of popcorn in her hand and was eating it with gusto. She made exaggerated chewing motions and shifted her body in rapid, unpredictable movements.

The girl returned to sit on the giant teddy bear and Munchkin followed her, still watching her intently. Munchkin's constant gaze made the girl wary as she ate her popcorn. After each embellished bite, she jerked the baggie behind her, hiding it away from Munchkin. I thought, She's afraid he'll take it from her.  Or worse, be forced to share. The girl's babysitter/older sister was too busy reading a book to bother with the girl's  popcorn shenanigans. I stood by and watched silently. Munchkin didn't show any intention to grab her treat. He just sat down near the girl on the teddy bear's other leg, staring at her curiously. I have never forced him to share, nor do I require other children to share with him. The girl's behavior was curious indeed!

After a few minutes of this bite-and-hide, sit-and-stare interaction, the girl's demeanor changed. Munchkin's docile, patient and attentive manner seemed to disarm her. She became curious about him. Then the girl really surprised me. She took out a piece of popcorn and extended her arm towards Munchkin. He leaned forward slowly, opened his mouth, and accepted the morsel placed gently inside. I was overjoyed but I had to check myself. My immediate thoughts were of the healthy mom neurosis variety:  I really hope that's homemade plain popcorn and not some preservative-ridden crap. Damn, Munchkin's never had popcorn before. Isn't that a choking hazard? I hope it doesn't upset his stomach.

I let those concerns pass and instead focused on the gem of the moment, that of true sharing. I quickly realized that the opportunity to share spontaneously was much more valuable than any harm that could come from trying a new food. Even junk food.  I revelled in the joy of watching this strange, possessive girl  willingly share her prized popcorn with my son.

The girl's  mother returned to the room at that moment. Apparently, the little girl was as enchanted as I was because she rushed over to tell her mother she'd fed the baby. The mother asked if it was OK for my son to have popcorn. I said yes and received confirmation that it was indeed plain popcorn (huge internal sigh of relief!).  I smiled and said thank you to the girl, hoping to let her know that by sharing she had brought joy to someone else.  Munchkin must have communicated his own nonverbal form of thank you (not that I would have forced a verbal one) because the girl returned to feed him another half dozen pieces of popcorn. Sometimes she put it in his mouth directly and a few times he extended his hand for the gift. Either way, the little girl raced back and forth to share the exciting news with her mother. She radiated delight in sharing her snack.

As we left the library, I wondered how many of these encounters might happen if adults didn't intervene the moment they saw another child yearning for another's food or toy. I wondered how many children might learn the true joys of giving and receiving when they are allowed to do so of their own volition. Still, I was elated.  I had witnessed the transformation of fear into giving. I had caught a glimpse of what we are all capable of doing.