inquiring parent

“When we are present discipline isn’t even an issue, whereas when we are distracted by beliefs about how children should be life becomes a battle of wills, an endless task of trying to mould children into whatever they currently are not!”

That quote is from one of my earlier posts. Being present, aware, awake -  whatever you like to call it -  is something I sometimes am, and sometimes am not. I’ve written quite a bit about what it’s like when I’m not present (by which I mean reacting in a conditioned way instead of being aware of what’s going on inside of me and what might be going on inside of someone else) so this article is about the difference awareness brings to discipline.

One recent Sunday morning the girls were downstairs eating breakfast, my husband was at work, and I was upstairs doing one of those Sunday morning somethings, like reading a book or taking the cat off the bed because his paws were muddy. I heard the sound of an argument from below and then LB came screaming up stairs and past the bedroom door.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. Or fresh from reading Non-Violent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg, I may even have shown more empathy, saying, “You are upset.” But I can’t guarantee it.  I can’t guarantee that any of what I’m about to write is exactly as it happened, but it’s near enough.

LB replied, between wails, that she and Lolo had had a fight. “She was by the fridge and I asked her to get me a spoon. She said no.”Choke, sob. “So I shouted at her please do it and she still wouldn’t.”Choke, sob. “And then I went to hit her and she was holding the milk, and I hit the milk and now it’s everywhere!” Huge choke, huge sob, and then back to wailing.

“The milk is everywhere?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s everywhere.”

“Is it on the carpet?” (We have a Turkish rug fairly close to the table.)

She shook her head.

“Then it’s not everywhere,” I said. “And if it’s not on the carpet it can be cleaned. Have you wiped any of it up?”

“No,” LB wailed, and tried to run off.  She often runs off and hides in a cupboard if she thinks she’s done something wrong or if she’s in conflict with someone. I could have let her, go, and sometimes I might have, but that day instead I held her and hugged her. “You feel ashamed,” I said. “Will hiding away change that feeling?” As she continued to wail, I asked what she thought would help. She wailed some more.

I told her I thought she’d feel better after she’d cleaned it up, that hiding wouldn’t stop the feelings of shame, and that she’d be better off coming downstairs. She angrily told me to stop repeating myself. (I hadn’t noticed that I had, but I’d mentioned the word shame twice, and that’s what LB objected to.) I suggested we go and clean up the mess together. She hesitantly agreed.

Downstairs Lolo was busy mopping up the table with a hand towel, so I suggested to LB that she could clean the milk off the floor and wall. “I can’t do it!” She wailed. “There’s too much.”

“You feel overwhelmed, but looks worse than it is,” I replied. “Liquid always does.

Lolo held up the milk carton and said, “Look there’s not very much spilled at all.”

As I filled a bucket with soapy water, Lolo said, “I like mopping up, can I do it?”

I heard myself say, “Thank you, but no. I know you’re trying to be kind to LB, but she needs the feeling of having cleared up the mess. I would be kinder to let her do it.” (It was one of those times when words come out and afterwards I realise their truth. To me, those moments are pure joy, moments when I know I’m not in control, and something wonderful is taking place. I often experience similar moments when I’m writing fiction and a story goes off in a direction I never imagined.)

Lolo understood, and while she and I finished cleaning the table LB mopped the wall and floor.

LB’s relief after she’d cleaned up was obvious. We’ve talked about it since, and she says that she felt self-forgiveness afterwards. Later that same morning the girls were in their bedroom tidying out some boxes. I heard LB’s raised voice again. “I did hit you,” she was saying, “and I’m sorry.”

It turned out she’d thrown something to Lolo and had hit her. Lolo said it was okay, but LB wanted the chance to apologise!

I’ve long believed that punishment doesn’t work. Yet, I’ve resorted to it many times. There are so many beliefs in Western culture that children are bad or wild and need to be tamed that it is challenging to simply trust ourselves and our children. If I had followed a punishing route that Sunday I would have ordered LB downstairs to clean up the mess she made, and I would have reprimanded her for hitting Lolo. I might have worried that I ’should’ issue some sort of sanction, have tried to think up one that fitted the crime, and felt guilty because I couldn’t come up with anything. She, meantime, would have been screaming that wasn’t fair, that I always picked on her and that if Lolo hadn’t refused to bring her a spoon it wouldn’t have happened. If I had managed to force her to clean up the mess she would have done it with resentment. We would have had a morning of misery and she would have learned that the way to get people to do what you want is to use force, and that as she was being punished for doing just that adults weren’t to be trusted. And she would have had no sense that I understood how she was feeling.

Instead what she learned was that cleaning up a mess she’d made wasn’t so hard as she’d imagined, and that she felt better afterwards. She was able to use that learning a few days later. She was in the bathroom making flower waters (as eleven year-old girls do). Petals were soaking in pots on top of a chest of drawers full of swimming gear. She knocked a pot. Water and petals floated towards the swimming costumes. LB wailed. “Oh no! It’s everywhere. It’s all ruined!”

I reminded her that the milk hadn’t been as hard to clean up as she’d imagined, and she calmed right down. Within seconds she had wiped it up.

It also got me thinking about making amends and wondering where I run away instead of cleaning up messes I’ve made. Hmm…

PS

I mentioned Non-Violent Communication at the beginning of this article. “Nonviolent Communication (also called Compassionate Communication) can be used in any interaction. NVC provides practical skills in language, awareness, and using power to communicate in ways that inspire compassionate giving and receiving toward meeting the needs of all concerned.” (From the web-site: http://www.cnvc.org/ )

I go on reading about other processes not because The Work doesn’t work, but because it does. As my thinking changes I understand in ways I couldn’t in the past.  I read an introduction to NVC years ago, and thought I’d never be able to do it properly, so I didn’t explore it. Then a few months ago I saw a video clip of an interview with Marshall Rosenberg, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smEXGNui2OQ and realised that NVC wasn’t about getting the words right, but about learning to think in terms of needs instead of judgements. Rosenberg says, “All language which criticises others is simply an expression of an unmet need.” And that applies to ourselves as much as to others.