Monday, February 28, 2011

The "Unholy Trinity"

6:48 a.m. The winter world outside my kitchen cold and dark as I prepare my coffee and warm the children’s milk. They sit sleepily at the kitchen table. Slurp, slurp goes their milk. The coffee pot burps and sizzles. "Ernesto, wanna play Guess Who?" Six-and-a-half year-old Gloria slides off her chair, darts into the playroom, and is back again not two seconds later, her new game in hand, and they're off!  Bing!  As if someone put quarters in their backs and toggled their "on" buttons. I continue my slower metamorphosis into waking life, cream into coffee, bleary-eyed email check, spam deletion, unfurling of the newspaper from its plastic cocoon……

"Ernesto! Stop it! No!! Ernesto, I said STOP IT!" My head snaps up to see three-and-a-half year-old Ernesto sprawled across the kitchen table, attempting to spy on Gloria's “secret card” - the one that is supposed to remain hidden from view as they take turns asking questions, trying to figure out who is the other player's "mystery person." I also see karate-girl, Gloria, straight-arming her brother at the forehead as he struggles onward in hot pursuit of a cheater's Pyrrhic victory. This is not good.  As I see it, I have three options: (1) Do nothing and see how the interaction plays itself out; (2) Intervene calmly and work with them to resolve their conflict; or (3) Give in to my early-morning, not quite awake irritation, raise my voice, and tell them to knock it off.  After one more sip of coffee and a quick prayer, I step into the fray. "Ernesto," I say, aiming for the ideal calm-but-firm tone, "Please respect Gloria's words and sit down on your bottom."  No response. Boy struggles onward, karate-girl increases the force of her arm against his head, her eyes silently pleading with me to do something. I repeat myself.  Nothing changes.  Something snaps inside. I feel angry and helpless.  I am not really ready for this day to begin, let alone to work at parenting them.  I just want this to be over. I just want to enjoy my coffee. I just want them to get along and play their game. So, what do I do? I SCREAM, of course. "ERNESTO! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!!!" Ernesto jerks back into his seat.  Gloria sits wide-eyed and waiting, relieved but wary. There is silence beyond deepest silence, followed by the heart-breaking rasp of little-boy sobs.  I feel empty.  I envision my life force, expelled by my scream, aerosolized, and now slowly raining back down onto my children and I.  As I breathe myself back into me, I am conscious of one thought - "Now what?" My heart sinks. Ugh. OK. Triage 101. First, tend to the “mortally wounded.”  I sit down, open my arms, and invite my sad, soggy little boy into them. "I am sorry I screamed at you.” I say. “I am so sorry. That must have been scary, huh?" "Ye-he-he-ess, Mommy, I don't like it you screamed at me-hee-hee..." he says.  "Well, I made a mistake. Mommies make mistakes too. I made a mistake and I am sorry. I will try to do better next time.”  There is silence, then sniffles, but the silence feels different. I can’t really explain it, it is intuitive, but there is a peace in it, and it often indicates that we are in a teachable moment, so I say, “Ernesto, you know what? It is not OK for me to scream at you when I could make a better choice, but I am not the only one who made a bad choice here. I think all three of us can learn from this. I can learn that screaming at you is not the best way to help you learn. But, do you know why I screamed?" I ask. "No," he replies. "Well, I was angry that you were trying to see Gloria's cards – that is not a fair way to play the game - and you weren't respecting her words – she asked you to stop twice – and you didn’t stop, and you weren’t respecting my words, and that made me angry too.  I asked you to sit down in your chair, and you didn’t do what I asked. So, I can learn to not yell at you, but you can learn from this too. You can learn to try and follow the rules of the game and to listen to your sister and respect her words." As he quietly ponders, I turn to my daughter next and say, "And, you can learn from this too.  What do you think about the way you were touching your brother?  Is it OK to push your brother's head like that when you don't like what he is doing?" I ask. "No,” she mumbles. “That's right. So, what do you think you could do next time he doesn't listen to you, instead of pushing him?"  "Ask for help,” she replies. "That is one option. And it could be a good one, but what else? What if no one is right there and able to help you?" She looks at me blank-faced, completely stumped. I try again, "What is the worst thing that could happen if he kept trying to see your cards and you didn't push him away?" I ask.  Her face and voice flash with pent up anger and frustration as she blurts, "He would see who my mystery person is! And, then that would be cheating!  And, I would be angry and not want to play with him anymore!" She sinks back into her chair.  “Exactly. Natural consequences, right?  And, then, he might learn a lesson. He might learn why it is important to follow the rules of the game, not cheat, and respect other people's words, right?" She nods.  She wants a hug too, so there we are, as the sun rises over the backyard hedges, the “unholy trinity” wedged in one chair, in a single, soggy, pretzely embrace.

Later, many times over, I replay the scenes in my mind and ask myself:  Why did I flash with anger?  Why did I scream at my son?  Did I really need to intervene? Should I have stayed out of it?  Should I have allowed Ernesto to encounter his lesson in a different way?  As Mark Twain said, “A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”[1] I rewind the scenes again, and this time, I replay them like one of those "choose your own adventure"[2] novels.  If I had taken a different path and had not "violently" intervened, I see Ernesto continue in his struggle to spy Gloria's card, she continues to push him, he sees the card, she gets angry, screams at him, ends the game.  Perhaps he learns his lesson, but, just as likely, he doesn't really learn anything, and just feels anger towards his sister, or even triumph in having viewed her secret card, a reward for his deviousness. Or, they continue to struggle and my karate-girl escalates the physical violence and hurts him, then he quits the game, and they learn only the same old lesson about the consequences of trying to resolve conflict through physical force. Compared with those potential outcomes, ours seems preferable.  Nevertheless, I am left with an emotional hangover of regret.  Why?  I rewind the scenes once again, and this time I see something new, something that might be obvious to you, but was not clear to me until I wrote it all out:  Because I “lost it,” and yelled at my child, what might have been just another sibling conflict became an opportunity for all of us – the “unholy trinity” – to learn.  Like my children, I have a chance to learn through the experience my own "natural consequences.”  These consequences were the guilt and regret I suffered after screaming at my child.  After reflecting on my behavior, here are the lessons I hope to carry with me:  (1) Raising my voice to get the children’s attention can be an acceptable choice, but next time, instead of singling out one child, I hope to remember to say something neutral, like "Freeze!”[3]; (2) When I engage in the work of parenting my children, I am not just teaching them, the process is teaching me and, if I am open and aware, I will receive valuable lessons; and (3) Guilt and regret can be helpful cues that a lesson is available for me, but once I identify the lesson, I can let go of those feelings, let the past be in the past, and move on to the next chapter in the adventure.


Photo credit:  http://www.littlebeanonline.com/

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Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The Parable of the Y-Wing Starfighter


My three year-old son sits on the playroom couch with his beloved white and yellow Lego Star Wars Y-Wing Starfighter - Anakin Skywalker's ship.  I watch as he carefully removes the plastic dome that sits over Anakin's Padawan or Jedi Apprentice, Ashoka, and then tries to fold up the plastic canopy that shields Anakin's cockpit. The plastic canopy comes off entirely.  "Mommy! Help! It's not working!!!" I have observed this scene before.  I know exactly what he needs to do to get the result he seeks, and I have shown him how to do it – to hold the canopy in place with his fingers to provide a counter-weight so it will not pop off.  Why won't he just do it?!  I take a deep breath. "Would you like some help?" I ask.  "Yes!" He says.  I feel oddly relieved. I was expecting more of a fight. He is three after all.  "Do you remember how I showed you to hold down here, on these two gray spots, to keep the canopy from coming off?" I ask, as I demonstrate again, for the third or fourth time this week. "Yes, I remember. But, I don't want to do it that way.  My way will work. It worked before . . . . . Once. . . . "  I feel momentarily exasperated by his stubborn refusal to do it my way – my way works every time, but as I look at him so patiently and diligently trying to recreate that one success, I feel a combination of pride and amusement as well.  I stifle a laugh, arch my eyebrows into what I hope is a slightly comical expression and say in what I hope is a neutral tone (i.e., devoid of sarcasm),[1] “So let me see if I understand what you are saying – your way has worked one time, and failed about one hundred times, but you still want to do it your way?”  He looks up from his Y-Wing as I continue, “You realize that what you are doing is Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”  Even as this comes out my mouth, I am beginning to question my approach to this situation.  I am not speaking to an adult, after all, but to a three year-old boy.  My comment about Einstein was really for my own benefit – it amused me to recall it, to see its truth illustrated before me in the actions of my son.  I begin to worry that he may not understand my comment and feel disconnected from me – put down.  But then, his eyes twinkle, he chuckles merrily, and repeats, “It did work – once,” and quietly resumes his efforts.  Off comes the canopy, “Ah!”  He grunts in frustration.  Both my emotions and fingers are itching to control his behavior now.  I watch myself, mindful of my feelings, still a bit irritated that he is not listening to me.  I flash back to my own childhood.  I see myself as a young girl, determined to do something my way. I see my Dad, a well-meaning German-American physician, a staunch believer that there is “the one right way” to do things in this world, instructing me on how to do it right.  I see my clumsy little fingers trying to do it his way, still failing, wanting so much both to please him and to just do it my own way – right or wrong.  I see my teary refusal to pursue his method, the frustration on his face, his displeasure and disappointment with me.  I see him walking angrily away from me, leaving me to struggle alone. [2] Maybe there is a different way, I think to myself, as I continue to watch my boy.  My reverie is interrupted by his excited little voice.  “I know!”  He exclaims, “It is not working because today is not Sunday.”  For a moment, I think my son has just made one of those goofy, little-kid leaps into magical thinking that has no basis in reality, but then my mind is whirring, trying to make a connection.  Yes, he was playing with this toy on Sunday.  Perhaps his one success doing it his way occurred then and his new hypothesis is that his method works only on that day.  Perhaps this also is an opportunity for him to save face and for us to move beyond our power struggle and into a place where we can really play.  “Oh, yes,” I say (again, studiously devoid of sarcasm), “That’s the problem.  Your way will not work because today is Thursday.”  I look into his sweet face.  His eyes are twinkling again, and once again he chuckles.  He flips up Anakin’s canopy and off it pops.  “Oops!  Not Sunday!”  I say with a laugh.  He giggles.  We replace the canopy.  He flips up Anakin’s canopy again and off it pops.  “Oops!  Not Sunday!”  We say in unison.  We both giggle.  Over and over again we do this, because everything is funnier when it is repeated at least three times,[3] and by the time we are done, he has laughed so hard he has given himself the hiccups.  I feel cleansed by the laughter.  I am enjoying my son.  We sit and examine the Y-Wing.  We talk about the physics of counter-weights.  We try out different Lego pieces to see if they provide sufficient counter-weight to Anakin’s canopy (they do not), which leads to a discussion of the different surface areas and shapes of the various Lego pieces.  We are in a lovely flow of play and learning.  He is so teachable in this moment.  It is a high point in my day as a parent.

Later, I reflect on this interaction, wondering what general principles of parenting and human interaction I can take away from it.  What I see is that my son had permission to be his stubborn, three year-old self.  He had permission to succeed or fail on his own.  When he chose to pursue a course that I was fairly confident would lead to failure, I let him do it despite my desire to force him to do it my way, and in the end, we both succeeded, not by proving that either way was the “right” way, but by maintaining our connection to one another. 





[1] Although it can be hard to resist at times, I try to refrain from using sarcasm with my children.  At their ages (6 and 3), they really do not understand it, but they sense they are being ridiculed.  It is no coincidence that the word “sarcasm” comes from the Greek word sarkasmos, meaning to tear flesh.
[2] To his credit, my Dad recognized this dynamic between us.  For my birthday one year, he gave me a framed embroidery that he had secretly completed himself, depicting a bird and a mouse.  The blue bird patiently demonstrates flapping its wings to fly, while the mouse glides downward holding a daisy as a parachute.  He had carefully stitched my name across the mouse’s chest.
[3] This clip from "The Simpsons" provides one of my favorite examples of this rule of humor:

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