Conquering Death

"Only birth," writes the eminent mythologist Joseph Campbell, "can conquer death -- the birth, not of the old thing again, but of something new."

Occasionally, some credentialed person or another will predict that in the future, perhaps the near future, science will have conquered death, at least insofar as old age and disease are concerned. I imagine we'll still be susceptible to falling off cliffs and whatnot, but we are already seeing how modern medicine can keep our old bodies running for years, if not decades, beyond their "natural" expiration date. Of course, for any of us who have sat at the bedside of a loved one kept alive by these "artificial" means know that this this really isn't life as we know it. Part of the tragedy of this sort of end to life, for me at least, is the raw reality of these frail and failing humans last stand. Not today, they seem to say, not today, until the day arrives. 

Poets and philosophers have often noted that it's impossible to distinguish between pity and love. Modern science has not conquered death, but in these increasingly common process of life ending in bed, attached to machines and full of medications, it has given us these dwindling moments of pity-love, waiting, waiting, not today, not today. 

Frankly, I'd rather just be eaten by a bear. 

"Did you hear that Teacher Tom died?"

"Oh no! What happened?"

"He was eaten by a bear."

It would be painful and horrifying as it happened, of course, but the part of me that lives on -- which is to say the stories people tell about me when I'm gone -- will have me going out with a bang, not a whimper.

I've been watching a pair of small birds -- I think they're Western Bluebirds (Sialia Mexicana) -- shuttling insects to their recently hatched babies. Every morning for the past couple weeks, I've sat with my morning coffee in the same place at the same time, watching them come and go with what looks like crickets in their beaks, ducking into a cavity in a tree trunk for a few minutes, then darting back out with their beaks empty. For the last few days, I've been able to hear their babies chirping from within, which tells me they are getting close to fledging: their second birth.

We tend to misunderstand the so-called lesser animals as being fortunate in that they don't have minds that allow them to think about things like death. We imagine they live in the moment, following ancient instincts, always doing the right thing because it's the only thing they can do. But every day, sometimes several times day, I see my bluebirds chasing potential predators away --  much larger ravens and crows for the most part. Death is never far away and like us, these birds are also trying to conquer death, but in their case it's not their own lives they defend, but rather those of their offspring, whose survival is paramount. That, ultimately, is how death is conquered, not by keeping the old bodies alive as long as we can, but through the constant, courageous defense of birth.

Surveys consistently find that those of us who work with young children report the most satisfaction with their lives, right alongside those in the medical profession. That makes sense because, like my bluebirds, we have given our lives to conquering death, not for ourselves, but for others. We are the midwives of that "something new." Psychologist and philosopher Alison Gopnik points out that caring for children is the central project of every civilization that has ever existed. 

If I do meet my end in the jaws of a bear, I hope it will happen as I'm defending something newer than me. Likewise, I will know that if a bear does do me in, it will probably be a mama bear who perceives me as a threat to her cubs.

That is the real cycle of life and death, the story in which we are the heroes.

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Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Homework

The California state legislature is currently working on a bill that would require schools to enact homework policies that take into account their students' mental and physical health. Introduced by Assemblyperson Pilar Shiavo, a member of the state's new "select committee on happiness," the bill appears to have very little opposition and will likely in some form become law.

"This feeling of loneliness and disconnection -- I know when my kid is not feeling connected," says Schiavo, "It's when she's alone in her room (doing homework), not playing with her cousin, not having dinner with her family."

According to an article on the CalMatters website, "The bill analysis cites a survey of 15,000 California high schoolers from Challenge Success, a nonprofit affiliated with the Stanford Graduate School of Education. It found that 45% said homework was a major source of stress and that 52% considered most assignments to be busywork . . . The organization also reported in 2020 that students with higher workloads reported 'symptoms of exhaustion and lower rates of sleep,' but that spending more time on homework did not necessarily lead to higher test scores."

Preschoolers should never be assigned homework, of course, although I know it's happening, at least in some places. Indeed, on Monday I wrote about a five year old being coerced into filling out worksheets while flying on an airplane as part of a family vacation. Useless busywork robbed this girl of what should have been a wonder-filled, connecting experience. The evidence is overwhelming that homework, especially through the elementary years, has nothing but negative impacts on learning, well-being, and, most importantly, happiness. So good on this committee for following the science.

That said, I have incredibly mixed feelings about this bill. I support its intent and I'm pleased that it's receiving bipartisan support in an era in which bipartisanship is nearly dead. At the same time, I don't at all like the precedent of politicians telling professional educators what to do. I don't like it when it's school boards banning books and I don't like it when it's legislatures dictating homework policy, even if I think this particular policy is a step in the right direction.

It's our own fault, however. I'm outraged that our profession is so shockingly out of touch with the current science about how humans learn, that we have not already, on our own, cut back, or even eliminated, homework altogether. This proposed law wouldn't be necessary in a real, professional educational system. And this is far from the only place that our schools straight up ignore evidence in favor of discredited behaviorist and factory floor approaches to education.

I don't have any memories of homework until about 4th grade. We were expected to solve the equations at the end of the chapters in our mathematics text book. It took about an hour a week. I was lucky because my father, an engineer, was facile with numbers, and patient with me as he helped me through the challenging parts. I don't know whether or not I learned the math I was expected to learn, but I sure do remember the time I spent with my father as we, together, noodled through what was being called "new math." Prior to that, however, and even for some time thereafter, most of my evenings and weekends were homework free -- my own.

But that doesn't mean I didn't study. I would spend time in the family garden, studying the fruits, flowers, insects, and soil. I studied sports, games, and performing arts with my friends. I studied the movement of clouds, the sound of rain, and the thrill of wind.

When I was 9-years-old, my family moved to Greece where I spent my time studying an entirely new culture from the inside. I attended an international school that ascribed to a work-at-your-own-pace model, which meant that homework was optional. Every now and then, I was inspired enough by something that I would actually choose to spend "my time" working on it. In fact, I was so enthusiastic about English that I completed all the expected elementary school work by the end of 4th grade. 

Most schools today would likely respond to my precociousness by loading me down with more "advanced" English work. But at this school, during this era, I was "rewarded" with free time. So while the other kids continued to pace themselves through the work, I would read whatever I wanted in the library. One day, I discovered the collection of vinyl that we could check out and listen to on headphones, a state-of-the-art technology. That was my real introduction to popular music, not to mention the comedy of Cheech & Chong. (My friends and I found them hilarious even through we certainly didn't get much of it). When my music teacher learned what we had discovered he started suggesting music we might like. This is how I first heard The Beatles, The Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack, and The Jackson Five, my gateway into an entire world. That, to me, is the highest form of teaching.

On Sundays, we went to a non-denominational church. The pastor's son was our Sunday school teacher. What he chose to teach us about what what he was interested in: the possibility that aliens had once lived amongst us. We would spend an hour each Sunday morning listening intently to this glamorous teenager tell us about how beings from another planet helped, for instance, the Ancient Egyptians build the pyramids, showing us pictures and detailing archeological "evidence." I was so inspired that I convinced my parents to purchase all of Erich von Däniken's pseudoscientific books. That spurred me to further reading. I became fascinated with all sorts of unexplained phenomenon -- the Bermuda Triangle, the Loch Ness Monster, the lost city of Atlantis -- which ultimately led me to an interest in archeology and the study of ancient things, which was highly motivating for an American boy living in Greece, a land full of historic and wonderful artifacts from the distant past.

That was my homework.

It seems to me that all school children should have homework. In fact, they should have nothing but homework. The problem with homework is when it's assigned from above, when it's simply busywork, when it's forced onto children because it's always been forced onto children. I don't know if this legislation will do any good. I hope that educators will see it as a chance to, finally, start doing the right thing. 

What is the right thing? To me the right thing is to inspire children to pursue their own interests, even if that's pop music or pseudoscience. What if the goal was for all children to come home from school eager to dig deeper, learn more, and follow threads wherever they lead? In other words, inspired to do homework.

I might not like the idea of a legislature sticking their dilettante noses into education, but I do love the idea of a select committee on happiness. I love the idea of a society, and by extension an educational system, that measures success by Gross National Happiness rather than Gross National Product. 

We live in a culture in which loneliness and disconnection are a deadly epidemic. And I do think these legislators are onto something when they focus in a bipartisan way on homework. But I would take it further. The answer to disconnection, I'm convinced, is to set our children free to do the homework that inspires them. That might not create more happiness, but it's the direction we must go if we want our children to find purpose in life, that thing that makes them come alive, and that, at the end of the day, is what the world needs more than anything else: people who have come alive. 

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Hi, I'm Teacher Tom and this is my podcast! If you're an early childhood educator, parent of preschoolers, or otherwise have young children in your life, I think you'll find my conversations with early childhood experts and thought-leaders useful, inspiring, and eye-opening. You might even come away transformed by the ideas and perspectives we share. Please give us a listen. You can find Teacher Tom's Podcast on the Mirasee FM Podcast Network or anywhere you download your podcasts.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Our Words as Loose Parts

"No climbing to the top!"

When our daughter was in kindergarten, her school installed an amazing rope-and-steel climbing structure. The kindergartners were forbidden from climbing to the very top, which meant that adults were always hovering around the thing, "reminding" the children when they got too high. 

One day, I asked her if she was loving the new climber. She replied, "It's kind of in the way. No one plays on it." When I asked her why, she just shrugged, "It's just not fun."

Awhile back, I posted some thoughts on The Theory of Loose Parts. Appropriately, it is an idea that has emerged from the field of architecture about how the best learning environments are those in which we have permission to shape and manipulate our surroundings, and the things found within our surroundings, to suit our needs, ideas and curiosity.

It's a theory that's generally thought of in terms of the physical environment, but no matter how loose the parts, no matter how flexible the space, if the environment does not grant permission to engage freely, then the children, as loose parts theorist Simon Nicholson puts it, will still be cheated.

That's what happened at our daughter's school. The adults, in their concern about safety (or perhaps liability), had sucked the joy out of it. They would have been better off not installing the thing at all. Or installing a shorter one. Or, the way we did it at Woodland Park, not have a climbing structure at all, but rather provide the materials -- scraps of wood, shipping pallets, car tires, ropes -- from which the children could build their own "climbers."

And at our school, that's what the children did. None so high as the one on our daughter's kindergarten playground, of course, but always just the right height for the children creating it. Not only that, these impromptu structures were never in the way because the moment the kids were done with it, the parts were on the move, being put to other uses. 

But this didn't happen just because we provided the parts. It wasn't even just because they were "loose." This kind of self-motivated loose play can only happen when children know they have permission to follow their curiosity.

At our daughter's school, the adults specifically forbid a certain type of exploration, but much of the time we let children know they don't have permission in more subtle ways. 

For instance, if you listen to the things adults are saying to children at play -- "Come here!" "Slow down!" "Be careful!" -- we hear mostly commands. Research finds that 80 percent of the sentences adults speak to young children are commands. And an environment full of commands is not an environment of permission.

We also hear a lot of school-ish questions, "What color is that?" "How many marbles do I have in my hand?" "Do you know what letter that is?" Implied in these types of questions is the idea that the adults know better than the children what to think about. But even more open-ended questions like, "What do you think will happen if you put one more block on your tower?" tend to steer children into adult approved "places" in which the parts are no longer loose. When we ask questions, we compel children to divert from their own course and onto the one we've chosen for them.

There are times for commands and questions, but if our goal is to create the kind of loose parts environments that allow children to learn at full-capacity, then we are well served to consider even our words as loose parts. When we strive to replace our commands and questions with informational statements -- "That color is red," "I have marbles in my hand," "This is the letter R" -- we are offering children information, facts, that they, like with any loose part, can use or not use.

Instead of the command "Get in the car," we might state the fact, "It's time to go" and let them do their own thinking. Instead of the command "Be careful!" we might say, "The ground below you is concrete and it will hurt if you fall on it." Instead of school-ish questions to which we already know the answers we might instead simply speculate aloud, "I wonder why the sky is blue," leaving it there for the children to consider . . . or not. 

Of course, we might also choose to just not say anything at all which is when our "third teacher," the environment, often does her best work.

We will be discussing this and much more in my course, The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think, a 6-week deep dive for educators, parents, and other caregivers who want to transform their relationship with young children by transforming how we speak with them . . . Or sometimes by not speaking at all! Registration is closes tonight at midnight tonight. Click here to learn more. I'd love to see you there!

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If you're interested in learning how to transform your own words into the kind of loose parts that allow children to think for themselves, please consider registering for my 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think. This 2024 cohort will examine how the language we use with children creates reality . . . for better or worse! We will explore how the way we speak with children creates an environment in which cooperation and peacefulness are the norm, where children take the initiative, solve their own problems, and, most importantly, think for themselves. Group discounts are available, but hurry because registration closes at midnight tonight (Wednesday, May 15). Click here for more information and to register.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Rebellion is an Adaptive Trait

My wife and I have had four dogs over the course of our three and a half decades together. Whenever I have made the mistake of pulling on any of their leashes, they have all pulled in the opposite direction, every time. Believe me, left to their own devices, they always want to go where ever I go. I know this because when there is no leash involved they follow right on my heels, hot breath on the backs of my legs, tripping me up when I turn around unexpectedly, but if they sense I'm compelling them, their instinctive response is to rebel.

I've found this to be true in humans as well. No one likes to be told what to do, even when we know it's for our own good, even when it's something we want to do. Imagine being commanded, "Eat your dessert!" I might still eat that dessert, but there will be a moment of reluctance, of rebellion, even if it's chocolate ice cream. When I do eat it, it's not going to taste as good after being bossed into it. And depending on who says it and how they say it, there's about an equal chance I won't eat that damn ice cream at all.

Rebellion is built into us and ultimately it is an adaptive trait. We all pull back against the leash because we are designed to act according to the pull of our own instincts and the tug of our own knowledge. Of course, we've all found ourselves in circumstances when we've decided that we must stuff our rebellious urges, but we always grow to despise those dictatorial bosses, teachers, or spouses. If we do well it's usually "in spite" of them. And, of course, we wriggle out of those particular leashes as soon as we possibly can.

We set limits and rules and our children always test them. Even the most patient and progressive among us know, from the inside, that teeth grinding spiral of commands and refusals, until we finally resort to either physical force or the heavy hand of punishment. It leaves everyone feeling angry, resentful, and abused. And if we're not careful, if we're not conscious adults, these smaller spirals become part of a larger whirlpool of ever escalating rule breaking and punishments because every pull on the leash, every punishment, leads to a pull in the opposite direction.

Some of us have decided that this rebellion is a bad thing, at least when it's directed at us, and it must be quashed at all costs. We're the parents or teachers after all. We will not have our authority challenged. If that's your approach, your future will likely be either one of temporary, savorless victories followed by frustration, or a regime that involves punishments of increasingly extreme severity. Every study ever done on the subject of punishment (both parental and societal) winds up concluding that punishments only work under two circumstances:

1. when the punisher is present; or
2. when the punishment is debilitating (e.g., so disproportionately severe that one will never again risk it.)

Most of us are unwilling or unable to play the role of ever-present punisher. And I hope that none of us are the type to inflict debilitating punishments on a child.

And rewards, frankly, are just the flip side of the same coin, but instead of teaching children that those with power get to tell them what to do, a fundamentally anti-democratic notion, they learn to kiss up to those in power. Either way, the child is left to react, rather than think for themselves, which should be, in the end, one of the primary objectives of child-rearing.

The alternative is to accept rebellion as a demonstration that our child is healthy and normal, that it is not a sign that they are on their way to a life of crime and ruin, but rather evidence that they think for themself, trust their own instincts, and will not be pushed around. When we accept this, we see that our job is to guide rather than command our children, to help them come to the understanding that behavior has its own rewards and consequences. I've written before about "natural consequences" and they apply here. 

A parent taking away a boy's dessert because he hits his sister isn't the natural consequence of hitting. The consequence is that his sister is hurt and the evidence of that is the crying. That's where our attention ought to be. "You've hurt your sister," keeps the focus on the boy's behavior, allowing everyone to explore the consequence and potential remedies. "No dessert for you," turns the boy's attention on the "unfairness" of the parent who is pulling on that damn leash.

Rebelliousness is not a synonym for "anti-social" or "uncivil," it's merely a reaction to the leash. We all want to do the right thing and none of us wants to be told what to do. In The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think, we will learn how to set aside the leash in favor of children who are free to think for themselves the way nature intends. When we do that, rebellion tends to be replaced with agreement, cooperation, and eagerness, not because they were compelled to it, but because they choose it, which are, at the end of the day, what most of us want from our fellow citizens no matter their age.

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If you're interested in learning more about alternatives to commands, punishments, and rewards, please consider registering for my 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think. Please join the 2024 cohort as we examine how the language we use with children creates reality . . . for better or worse! We will explore how the way we speak with children creates an environment in which cooperation and peacefulness are the norm, where children take the initiative, solve their own problems, and, most importantly, think for themselves. Group discounts are available, but hurry because registration closes at midnight tomorrow (Wednesday, May 15). Click here for more information and to register.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

"I Know"

I had an older relative who would respond to almost everything anyone said with "I know." You might say, "Pearl Harbor Day is just around the corner" and she would respond "I know." Now maybe she did know about Pearl Harbor Day (December 7). She was a well-educated person, but she'd also say "I know" to things she couldn't possibly have know. 

"I got out of bed this morning, stubbed my toe, and decided to go back to bed." "I know."

"You have a 'kick me' sign taped to your back." "I know."

"We discovered that our child has been disposing of her chewed gum between the seat cushions in the car." "I know."

All of these are actual examples. It would be comical if it hadn't been so damned irritating. I'm sure it was driven by a deep-rooted desire of some sort, perhaps it comforted her to always feel that she is in the know. I'm sure one could trace it back to a time when she was embarrassed that she didn't know or, worse, to an authority figure who chided her for not knowing. We learned long ago that confronting her about the habit, even gently, only results in angry denial, so we all strived to simply accept it as a quirk that we could chuckle about in commiseration on the drive home.

I'm thinking about his because I recently spent a 30 hour day traveling by air and spent 11 of those hours seated across the aisle from a young family: a mother, father, and two young children aged five and two. At first, the kids were fired up, the way children ought to be when flying.

"Mommy! Look! I have a little table!"

"I know."

"This button makes the seat tip back!"

"I know."

"They gave us blankets and pillows!"

"I know."

With each "I know" the children became less enthusiastic. Those "I knows" told the children that what they were noticing, what they were thinking, what they were experiencing was nothing special. Indeed, "I know" told the children that their discoveries were mere commonplaces, not worthy of discussion. "I know" told them that they were ignorant. And, sadly, it was only a matter of minutes before the children were bored enough that they began to pick petty fights with one another.

If the goal is to shut another person down, "I know" is one of the most effective ways to do it. It tells the other person that they are wasting their breath. In effect "I know" tells them that they are not interesting, and, really, to just shut up. This may make it an effective way of dealing with tedious mansplaining, but an otherwise horrible response to just about anything else.

As important adults in the lives of children, our role is not to know things, but rather to support them in their knowing. This doesn't mean that we must respond with false enthusiasm (e.g., "That's awesome!" or "You're so smart!") because the kids will see through that in a second. It does mean, however, that when we've been invited into their learning we can, without shutting them down, in the natural flow of dialog, acknowledge or extend their discovery in some way: 

"I see your little table."

"And if you push the button again it makes the seat pop back up." 

"Later they will also give us ear buds so we can watch that little screen." 

Or, when it can be said honestly, "I didn't know that. Thank you for telling me."

Part way into our flight I was trying to sleep when an altercation from across the aisle roused me. The mother was attempting to foist literacy worksheets onto her daughter. "Your teacher expects you to have these done before we get back." "I know," the daughter replied with a growl, folding her arms and glaring at the seat back in front of her. 

"They're not hard." "I know," she snarled again. 

"You can watch your show as soon as you're done." "I know!" This time she shouted. I was proud of her. Not only was she rebelling against the inanity of worksheets and the useless practice of assigned homework, but she was showing that she fully understands what it means when we reply, "I know."

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"I know" is just one example of how even small changes in the way we speak with children can make a huge difference. If you're interested in learning more about how the language we use with children impacts not just our relationships with them, but also their entire learning environment, please consider registering for my 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think. Join the 2024 cohort as we examine how the language we use with children creates reality. We will explore how even small changes in how we speak with children creates an environment in which cooperation and peacefulness are the norm, where children take the initiative, solve their own problems, and, most importantly, think for themselves. Click here for more information and to register.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Yes, There is Such a Thing as a Stupid Question

They say there are no stupid questions, but I beg to differ. We hear stupid questions almost every time adults and young children are together. 

For instance, a child is painting at an easel, exploring color, shape, and motion, experimenting with brushes, paper, and paint. There is an adult watching over her shoulder who points and asks, "What color is that?"

This is a stupid question. 

Here's another example: a child is playing with marbles, exploring gravity, motion and momentum. An adult picks up a handful of marbles and asks, "How many marbles do I have?"

The adult already knows the answer. The child probably does as well, in which case, the adult is distracting her from her deep and meaningful studies in order to reply to a banality. Or she doesn't know the answer, in which case the adult is distracting her from her deep and meaningful studies to play a guessing game.

In a moment, these stupid questions take a child who is engaged in testing her world, which is her proper role, and turns her into a test taker, forced to answer other people's questions rather than pursue the answers to her own.

If it's important that the child know these specific colors and numbers at this specific moment, and it probably isn't, then we should do the reasonable thing and simply tell her,"That's red," or "I have three marbles." If it's not new information, and it probably isn't, she's free to ignore you as she goes about her business of learning. If she didn't know, now she does, in context, as she goes about her business of learning.

This is probably the greatest offense we commit against children in our current educational climate of testing, testing, and more testing. We yank children away from their proper role as self-motivated scientists, testing their world by asking and answering their own questions, and instead force them to become test takers, occupying their brains with our stupid questions.

In my upcoming course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think, we will explore alternatives to our stupid questions as well as the other ways that well-intended adults, through the words we habitually choose, create a reality for young children in which they are discouraged from, and sometimes even "punished" for, thinking for themselves. In so many ways, both overt and subtle, adults unwittingly shut down critical thinking, replacing it with a reality in which mere reaction and obedience is rewarded. The good news is that when we learn this "technology" we can, through our language, create a reality for young children (and anyone else for that matter!) into one of self-motivation, cooperation, respect, and peacefulness.

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If you're interested in learning more about how the language we use with children impacts not just our relationships with them, but also their entire learning environment, please consider registering for my 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think. Join the 2024 cohort as we examine how the language we use with children creates reality. We will explore how the way we speak with children becomes an environment in which cooperation and peacefulness are the norm, where children take the initiative, solve their own problems, and, most importantly, think for themselves. Click here for more information and to register.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

Raising People Who Think for Themselves

I recognized them as the nice family from our building, their son, who looks to be approaching 4, was straddling one of those wooden, peddle-less "strider" bikes. He was in the midst of a tantrum, stamping his feet, while emitting a whine-cry of frustration. His father was kneeling beside him. As I passed I heard the dad say, in the gentlest, most loving voice imaginable, "If you keep acting like this you won't be able to ride your bike for a whole hour. And that's a long time."

*****

I was taking a recreational stroll through Pike Place Public Market, the heart and soul of Seattle. A boy, probably around 8, and his mother were having one of those heatless debates:

Boy (excitedly): "I want to go down that side."

Mom (jovially): "Oh, you don't want to go down that side. Let's go down this side. What do you want to see over there anyway?"

Boy (barely audible): "That side."

By then she had taken his hand and it was over.

*****

Just down at the end my street there was a park where I often walk my dog. During the warmer months, a length of the sidewalk emits fountains of water, arches under which children in bathing suits run on hot days. Every time I'm there, I hear parents saying to timid children, "Go under it!" "Get in it." "Don't be afraid."

*****

These are all just snippets overheard, out of context, and I don't know anything about the lives that lead up to those moments. We all speak with our loved ones unconsciously at times, maybe most of the time, but particularly in moments of stress or when faced with distractions, when our brains are working on things other than the relationship in which we're presently engaged. It's impossible to always be in the moment, of course, especially as a parent, but oh if we could only really hear ourselves speaking from the perspective of a disengaged passerby, how much we'd learn about ourselves and our relationships. So much more, I think, or at least so much different, than what we know about ourselves when we are steadfastly present and aware of our every word.

I think, for many of us, the idea that the adult is "the boss" is such a deeply rooted concept that we act as if it is an unquestioned truth. And sometimes, I suppose, we are "the boss," like when we need to take charge in urgent moments where safety is concerned. Stop! Don't go in the street! But too often we confuse being responsible for someone with being their superior, and that pre-supposition of command crops up in moments when there's really no point, like a bad habit.

It would never occur to us, for instance, to threaten to punish an adult for expressing an emotion like frustration in a non-violent way. In fact, I'd say stamping your feet and crying is a pretty straight-forward way to feel it, release it, then put it behind you. How much better than the adult-approved method of smiling through gritted teeth. When we threaten punishment for expressing an emotion, I think what we are really saying is, I'm embarrassed by the way you're acting. I fear it reflects poorly on me as a parent. That would be an inappropriate, incomprehensible load to lay on a child, so instead we threaten them even if we don't really mean it, like that father was doing with his frustrated son.

As Lao Tzu puts it, "Let your feelings flourish and get on with your life of doing." Kids are often masters of this, if we can just let them go. Seriously, if someone has to be the boss about emotions, I'm all for playing second fiddle. We don't know more about emotions than children simply by virtue of being adults: in fact, I've learned just about everything I know about emotions from working with kids.

And how about the idea that we get to tell children how they feel or what they really want? "You don't want to go down that side," "Oh, you're not hurt," "You don't really want that." Adding the question, "Do you?" to the end of it doesn't help. Believe me, the boy really did want to go down "that side," it does really hurt, and yes, she genuinely wants that. What we are really saying, is "I don't want to go down that side, "I wish that didn't hurt," "I don't want to give you that." What children hear is, I don't believe you, and I'm the grown-up, ergo, I know better. The language of command teaches children to distrust their own understanding, even of their own feelings.

I've written before about the knee-jerk use of directional statements: "Sit here," "Put that away," "Go over there." These too, clearly come from the habit of command. So ingrained is this in many of us that we direct, "Go under it!" when what we mean is, "It looks like it would be fun to go under it." We dictate, "Don't be afraid," when what we mean is, "I know you're afraid."

Perhaps as adults we've come to understand the code, to know that when our loved ones say, "Come here!" they aren't really bossing us, but rather just taking a short cut around saying, "I would like you to come over here," although I suspect most of us still feel a flash of resentment each time someone uses the language of command with us. Children, however, only hear that they are being told what to do, how to feel, and even that they might be punished for what is, after all, their own truth.

I have no expectation that any of us will be able to be utterly free of this mind-set. It's a very powerful one, this idea that adults are the boss, a notion that most people will never question, let alone examine. And even those of us who are fully aware, still, in unguarded moments, often fall into the language habits of command, not just with our children, but with our spouses, friends and colleagues. It's a pervasive thing. If we work on it, however, if we're reflective and conscious, our children won't be as likely to develop the habit as they become adults, not to mention that they will spend more of their childhood in a world in which they are free to think for themselves rather than simply reacting, pro or con, to the commands of adults. It's easier said than done, however, which is why I developed a 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think, which is an extended opportunity to really question and examine the impact of the language we use with the children in our lives and what we can do instead.

We know that what we learn when we're young carries forward into adulthood, and I for one would prefer to live in a world of people who think for themselves.

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If you're interested in learning more about how the language we use with children impacts not just our relationships with them, but also their entire learning environment, please consider registering for my 6-week course The Technology of Speaking With Children So They Can Think. Join the 2024 cohort as we examine how the language we use with children creates reality. We will explore how the way we speak with children becomes an environment in which cooperation and peacefulness are the norm, where children take the initiative, solve their own problems, and, most importantly, think for themselves. Click here for more information and to register.

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