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:
This is a beautiful story Ryan. I am incredibly delighted that you are sharing your insights with others because you are an amazing parental role model. And, selfishly, I feel like I'm sitting right there with you because your writing is so vivid. Thank you for sharing, Ryan.
ReplyDeletek