When do we teach our children to respectfully disagree with us? Safety, homework, chores, health and wellness, presumably we touch on all of those things in the course of parenting. After a texting incident last week (which was not my fault) I found myself wondering how and when I have or should teach this concept to our daughter. And yes, not having taught it much is pretty much my fault. I'll own that.
So. It's summertime. In the early evenings, it seems, Anne loves to hop onto her bike for a few spins around the block. Solo. It gets her out on her own, gives me time to get dinner together, and generally seems of mutual benefit. If I get worried about her, a long gaze out the front window usually produces a picture of unfettered childhood bliss. It's all good.
Until the other evening. Another long gaze out the window (from the couch rather than the kitchen this time-apparently dinner cooked itself that night), offered a carefree, hair-blowing-in-the-wind, HELMETLESS daughter 'o mine, blatantly flaunting her freedom all around our neighborhood!
"Anne Magaret Sponheim, please come home now!" I said it just like that. And she obeyed.
"Oh! Right! My helmet! I'll go and get it right now". She uttered those exclamations, fully convinced it would be all right. Get the helmet, get on the bike, and off she goes.
Well, it came as a shock when I asked her to park her bike for the night. Sometimes second chances create confidence, yes. Who, though, gets a second brain? No one. An oversight like that can have sudden, dire consequences, so in effort to teach her safety in a way that I thought would stick, I offered no second chance here.
"You don't get a second chance at a brain, so I'm sorry, I can't give you a second chance at remembering a helmet tonight." The mix of emotions on her face was new, strange, and very complicated. I couldn't tell what she thought or felt. She seemed to want to keep this one to herself.
Instead of disagreeing with me, pouting, arguing, crying, or anything of the sort, she dutifully followed directions. She went straight to her closet. Then she apparently found her cell phone, and began firing off texts to a friend. They were less than flattering of her mother.
Long story short, I found the phone, the texts, (this was only one of several less than flattering messages), and then made a few decisions:
1. I talked about next steps with Harold BEFORE implementation. Always good to get partner-buy-in.
2. I waited. We kissed goodnight, tucked her in, without mention of the texts I'd found.
3. When we did get to a conversation, it was question-based.
Tell me, which of your texts are you most proud of? Will you read it to me? And which are you maybe least proud of? Please read that to me too.
The tears came pretty hard and fast. And I held it together while she sat on the couch, feeling about 1" tall. Time worked the magic of granting me presence of mind. Thank you moon! Her travail didn't pull on my heartstrings, and I felt no need to rub it in a little harder. We simply worked it out.
Yes. She had disagreed with me. Yes, she understood it was wrong to fire off angry texts rather than confront me. And that's when it came out.
"But Mom, how can I disagree with you and still keep us good?" Of course I knew what she meant, and so we labeled it: Respectful Disagreement. And (this is the toughest pill for me to swallow in the whole thing) so I asked her what it might sound like to respectfully advocate for herself, when she's in disagreement wit me, or anyone for that matter. She DIDN'T KNOW!!! After a few blundered attempts from her, I realized we hadn't talked enough about this.
So we did. We talked about sandwiching: compliment, critique, appreciation. If she'd had this resource at her disposal the night of the free-flying hair, it might have sounded like:
"Mom, you notice everything when it comes to safety. Since I'm just riding around the block in a quiet neighborhood, I was thinking it might be OK to sans-helmet. I appreciate your looking out for me."
At which point I would have said, something about yes, it is a quiet neighborhood, and yes, you still need to wear your helmet. End of discussion. Thanks, though, for advocating for your own opinion.
Now we're in earn-it-back mode. She decided that after 10 respectful disagreements, she'll have earned the right to have her phone back. It's been five days. She's offered about one each. The practice is doing us all good. I'm modeling respectful disagreement to honor her work. And it's all good.
And hard as nails. Parenting is like running a marathon. You have to dig deep to keep going.
So. It's summertime. In the early evenings, it seems, Anne loves to hop onto her bike for a few spins around the block. Solo. It gets her out on her own, gives me time to get dinner together, and generally seems of mutual benefit. If I get worried about her, a long gaze out the front window usually produces a picture of unfettered childhood bliss. It's all good.
Until the other evening. Another long gaze out the window (from the couch rather than the kitchen this time-apparently dinner cooked itself that night), offered a carefree, hair-blowing-in-the-wind, HELMETLESS daughter 'o mine, blatantly flaunting her freedom all around our neighborhood!
"Anne Magaret Sponheim, please come home now!" I said it just like that. And she obeyed.
"Oh! Right! My helmet! I'll go and get it right now". She uttered those exclamations, fully convinced it would be all right. Get the helmet, get on the bike, and off she goes.
Well, it came as a shock when I asked her to park her bike for the night. Sometimes second chances create confidence, yes. Who, though, gets a second brain? No one. An oversight like that can have sudden, dire consequences, so in effort to teach her safety in a way that I thought would stick, I offered no second chance here.
"You don't get a second chance at a brain, so I'm sorry, I can't give you a second chance at remembering a helmet tonight." The mix of emotions on her face was new, strange, and very complicated. I couldn't tell what she thought or felt. She seemed to want to keep this one to herself.
Instead of disagreeing with me, pouting, arguing, crying, or anything of the sort, she dutifully followed directions. She went straight to her closet. Then she apparently found her cell phone, and began firing off texts to a friend. They were less than flattering of her mother.
Long story short, I found the phone, the texts, (this was only one of several less than flattering messages), and then made a few decisions:
1. I talked about next steps with Harold BEFORE implementation. Always good to get partner-buy-in.
2. I waited. We kissed goodnight, tucked her in, without mention of the texts I'd found.
3. When we did get to a conversation, it was question-based.
Tell me, which of your texts are you most proud of? Will you read it to me? And which are you maybe least proud of? Please read that to me too.
The tears came pretty hard and fast. And I held it together while she sat on the couch, feeling about 1" tall. Time worked the magic of granting me presence of mind. Thank you moon! Her travail didn't pull on my heartstrings, and I felt no need to rub it in a little harder. We simply worked it out.
Yes. She had disagreed with me. Yes, she understood it was wrong to fire off angry texts rather than confront me. And that's when it came out.
"But Mom, how can I disagree with you and still keep us good?" Of course I knew what she meant, and so we labeled it: Respectful Disagreement. And (this is the toughest pill for me to swallow in the whole thing) so I asked her what it might sound like to respectfully advocate for herself, when she's in disagreement wit me, or anyone for that matter. She DIDN'T KNOW!!! After a few blundered attempts from her, I realized we hadn't talked enough about this.
So we did. We talked about sandwiching: compliment, critique, appreciation. If she'd had this resource at her disposal the night of the free-flying hair, it might have sounded like:
"Mom, you notice everything when it comes to safety. Since I'm just riding around the block in a quiet neighborhood, I was thinking it might be OK to sans-helmet. I appreciate your looking out for me."
At which point I would have said, something about yes, it is a quiet neighborhood, and yes, you still need to wear your helmet. End of discussion. Thanks, though, for advocating for your own opinion.
Now we're in earn-it-back mode. She decided that after 10 respectful disagreements, she'll have earned the right to have her phone back. It's been five days. She's offered about one each. The practice is doing us all good. I'm modeling respectful disagreement to honor her work. And it's all good.
And hard as nails. Parenting is like running a marathon. You have to dig deep to keep going.
