5 Ways To Connect With Your Kids Right Now
Let me begin by stating a few obvious facts. First, there are many different styles of parenting. Second, different generations have different ideas about parenting. Third and finally, everyone has an opinion about what parenting style is best.
For example, when I was growing up, I was aware of a stigma against parents who thought their kids walked on water; parents who thought their child could do no wrong. It was thought that this parenting style produced inconsiderate children who did whatever they wanted because no one would ever tell them they were doing anything wrong.
There is a part of me that can understand why the stigma against this parenting style exists. Offering unconditional support to our children sounds like a great idea in theory, but I also believe that children need the boundaries that are created when they feel the consequences of doing something inappropriate or unacceptable. The natural curiosity of children drives them to seek limits, limits which are sometimes defined by the disapproval of a loved one.
However, the other end of the spectrum offers its own dangers. In trying to avoid being the type of parent who supports their children to a fault, it is possible to go too far in the opposite direction. In this case, parents may end up feeling like it is their job to be on guard for possible flaws in their children’s behavior. This can easily become a habit that is hard to shake, leading parents to constantly feel skeptical of their child’s behavior as well as responsible for it. In short, parents don’t trust their children. Which can send the message to children that they are not trustworthy. Not exactly fertile soil for healthy relationships on either end.
I’ve done a lot of thinking about trying to find the middle ground; the point where we support our children and foster the kind of self-confidence that leads them to trust themselves, but also help them to develop the inner voice that helps them to regulate themselves when needed.
The bad news? I don’t have “The Answer.”
But what I do know is this: Of all the lessons I’ve learned in this life, my greatest teachers have been my biggest fans, not my biggest critics.
It’s been the people who believe in me even when I make mistakes–the people who trust my choices even when they don’t understand them, because they believe in the person that I am–these are the people who make me want to grow, to learn, to be better. These are the people who taught me to believe I am worthy. Is there any greater gift we can give to one another?
So when I watch my daughter, when I think about the voice I use when I talk to her, the voice that will eventually become the voice in her head, I want to err on the side of kindness, the side of understanding, the side of trust. I want to believe in her so that she learns to believe in herself. I want to trust her so that she knows she is trustworthy.
There will be times when she lets me down. There will be times when she breaks that trust. There will be times when I have to be skeptical of her choices and her actions and her words. But I believe that even in the times where I must, as a parent, be critical of her choices, I can still believe in her. I can believe in her, in the goodness I see in her soul. I can trust that I raised her to be a good human, and that together we can learn and grow, in spite of (or even because of) the mistakes we make along the way. Even when I can’t support her choices, I can support the amazing little human she is.
I don’t believe my child walks on water or that she can do no wrong. But that will never stop me from being her biggest fan.
It didn’t take a psychic to predict what was about to unfold before me. My 8-year-old son had just struck out in his little league game. While I attempted to brace myself for some ugliness, it was just too late. In the dugout where he returned, a hat and bat went fiercely flying in the air. An angry mouth bore some ugly words. The kid was irate. Although my son is a great baseball player, he does occasionally strike out. In fact, every single person who has ever participated in the game has had it happen. It’s not a great...
I’ve been told many times that I’m overprotective. That I’m a helicopter mom. That I won’t always be able to stop them from getting hurt. And I just smile. Because people who tell me I’m too protective of my children, those who don’t understand my anxiety, those who don’t get why I feel a desperation to keep my girls safe from every danger—those people don’t know me, they don’t know my story. I am that overprotective mom. And I make no apologies for that. You see, I’m no fool. I know I cannot keep my sweet girls safe from all...
I’m a middle mom. The blurry-eyed days of babies and toddlers felt like they’d last forever. But they’ve slipped right through my fingers like flowing water . . . and are gone. And still, the days of car driving, college applying, inward pulling, job working, homework-laden, and friends-are-everything teens are not yet here. RELATED: Dear Son, At the 50 Yard Line I’m far enough into motherhood to truly realize and appreciate how fast it goes. And at the same time, not fully through the land of little. I’m in a space that lingers between babies and big kids. And it...
My daughter came to us from brokenness, but that is not how her story ends. She is adopted from foster care. She was made in love and adopted in love. Though the decisions of her biological parents ultimately cost them their parental rights, we know beyond a shadow of a doubt, they loved her and wanted her. We tell her that. We tell her they tried for her. We tell her how much she is loved with us. She is not broken, she is loved and wanted, and in that, there is healing. Beauty from ashes. RELATED: Welcoming Motherhood Through...
Last night as my 6-year-old daughter and I were saying our nightly prayers, I asked her if there was anything that was worrying or bothering her that she would like to pray about. She thought for a moment and then said, “No, I can’t think of anything,” and at that moment I thought boy, that must be nice. Not a care or concern on her little heart or mind. How free her little heart must feel. RELATED: To the Mom Trying to Do It All, You’re In God’s Way I was so envious in that moment of her innocence. I...
I remember the days I told my daughter about my pregnancies with each of my boys. Both times, she was elated. She rubbed my belly excitedly, lovingly participated in the decoration of their nurseries, and embraced everything about being a big sister. And her excitement and love didn’t stop once they arrived. She doted on both her brothers, always singing to them, reading them bedtime stories, and being ready with a pacifier should one fall. It didn’t matter whether they interacted with her or not, she was their first friend and biggest fan. She loved them fiercely. Then came autoimmune...
When you’re a kid everything in life seems so much bigger. They don’t grasp yet how incredibly small everything is yet. They don’t get how small they are in the big world; they don’t get how small life’s moments are in the span of a lifetime. As a teacher of adolescents, I taught Romeo and Juliet for years. As adults who’ve life experienced love and heartbreak, we might roll our eyes at the drama of Romeo and Juliet’s love, but I always used this story to remind my students I understood that, for them, first love would feel so much...
2020—what a strange year! One day, I’m at school in a classroom full of friends. The next, I’m stuck at home, learning all alone. I’m far away from what I knew. The world isn’t turning. Am I standing still? Can anyone see me? I can see my teacher singing on the screen, but sometimes she just disappears. I wonder where she went. My internet is spotty and technology so tricky. Can they really hear me, or should I try un-mute? I better double-check, before I fall behind. I can see my friend playing at the park, but it’s really hard...
The tree lights flashed in our darkened living room that Christmas Eve night, creating transient shadows on the walls. The only noise outside the hum, like gentle snoring, from various appliances was the creak-crack-creak from the rocking recliner I had vacated. A moment after I left the rocker, my husband settled into it, and we heard the stealthy padding of tiny feet in the hall. We watched, waited, and around the corner crept a wide-eyed toddler. He turned his head and said, “Oh, it’s you, Papa.” His face fell, his body relaxed, and a mixture of disappointment and relief played...
My son was about three months old when I came across the blurb in a magazine. “There are 940 Saturdays before your baby turns 18, and 260 of them are gone by his 5th birthday.” The blurb was on the side of a page, near an ad selling some sort of baby product I’ve since forgotten. RELATED: The Nights Are So Long I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my kitchen scissors, cut out the words, took a magnet, and put them front and center on my fridge. I wanted to see them each day. As a working parent, I realized...