One of my kids recently asked for access to an online video game in which players design 3-D game props. Our policy has been not to allow our kids web or video games. He assured us this is more about the graphic design. And he offered to set up tight limits to his daily use, all linked to scholastic achievements and chores.
My gut was to say no. It has been helpful to limit my children’s exposure to these things. They read. They play with each other. They interact.
Still, I was conflicted. I like to say yes to my kids. I like to give, to fulfill their requests and see them happy. He’s such a good boy.
I was uncertain. I felt pain, and though unaware of it in the moment, I wanted to blame someone or something for this pain.
My son. If he weren’t so insistent on something I find yucky, I wouldn’t have been in this position. What’s wrong with him?
Myself. What’s wrong with me that I don’t know if I’m being responsible? Or a control freak? Or harming the warm bond between us?
I didn’t like it.
At some point I remembered a beautiful line from child psychologist Chaim Ginott: “Children act good when they feel good. So how do you help kids feel good? Accept what they feel.”
Strong feelings come and go. A surge of feelings can feel frightening, something either to fight or flee. Kids’ acting out is their attempt to fight or flee scary feelings. But when a parent is not inclined to fight or flee his kid’s feelings, the kid isn’t either. And then the feelings pass.
Sometimes a parent needs to parent himself. My surge of pain can feel like something to fight or flee from: ‘What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?”
But I can remember that these feelings are basically safe. I needn’t react to them. And then the feelings pass. The child and the parent ride an updraft and taste the buoyancy of their own spirit.
In the end, I told my son no. I felt his disappointment, I listened, and I expressed sincere regret that he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Thank God, our relationship moved on. And I continue to trust in our updraft.
Here are some takeaways from this story.
#1: You have permission to not know in life. It’s not a failure. It’s a sign of competence and humility to acknowledge something’s not clear, to refrain from deciding simply because others want you to.
#2: Things we don’t know are a type of deficit. Deficits are human; they allow us the chance to form a partnership with others, God, or both. There is nothing more human than that.
#3: Difficult feelings, while painful, are not dangerous. You get to discover that about your own feelings, and then your loved ones pick it up without you even saying anything.
My gut was to say no. It has been helpful to limit my children’s exposure to these things. They read. They play with each other. They interact.
Still, I was conflicted. I like to say yes to my kids. I like to give, to fulfill their requests and see them happy. He’s such a good boy.
I was uncertain. I felt pain, and though unaware of it in the moment, I wanted to blame someone or something for this pain.
My son. If he weren’t so insistent on something I find yucky, I wouldn’t have been in this position. What’s wrong with him?
Myself. What’s wrong with me that I don’t know if I’m being responsible? Or a control freak? Or harming the warm bond between us?
I didn’t like it.
At some point I remembered a beautiful line from child psychologist Chaim Ginott: “Children act good when they feel good. So how do you help kids feel good? Accept what they feel.”
Strong feelings come and go. A surge of feelings can feel frightening, something either to fight or flee. Kids’ acting out is their attempt to fight or flee scary feelings. But when a parent is not inclined to fight or flee his kid’s feelings, the kid isn’t either. And then the feelings pass.
Sometimes a parent needs to parent himself. My surge of pain can feel like something to fight or flee from: ‘What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?”
But I can remember that these feelings are basically safe. I needn’t react to them. And then the feelings pass. The child and the parent ride an updraft and taste the buoyancy of their own spirit.
In the end, I told my son no. I felt his disappointment, I listened, and I expressed sincere regret that he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Thank God, our relationship moved on. And I continue to trust in our updraft.
Here are some takeaways from this story.
#1: You have permission to not know in life. It’s not a failure. It’s a sign of competence and humility to acknowledge something’s not clear, to refrain from deciding simply because others want you to.
#2: Things we don’t know are a type of deficit. Deficits are human; they allow us the chance to form a partnership with others, God, or both. There is nothing more human than that.
#3: Difficult feelings, while painful, are not dangerous. You get to discover that about your own feelings, and then your loved ones pick it up without you even saying anything.
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