They’re like weather systems, children’s emotions. The clouds move in with a sniffly hiccup, a lip-quivery frown, and soon escalate like a tornado ripping across the plains. Sometimes I want to take cover, crawl into the cellar and latch the heavy door, quietly singing “If I had a Hammer” while the storm rages outside.
And yet, I want to be compassionate, a safe haven for my children to express all their feelings, even the stormy ones. It gets confusing, I mean, sometimes there’s a problem that makes my children grumpy, and other times, it seems like the problem is that someone has become a needle stuck in the vinyl groove of grumpiness.
But what I am learning is that it doesn’t matter if the problem is the finger-pointing at the moon or the moon itself. Underneath every emotional outburst there is a real need.
When I got a call from Col’s school that he had a temperature of 102, I went to retrieve my limp boy, kissed his burning, blonde head, and carried him to the car. Suddenly, mysteriously, Rose developed a foot pain that prevented her from walking without sobbing hysterically.
Rose’s behavior made my own head flare with heat and anger, but what was her underlying need?
Natalie Christensen, a parenting coach, suggests that when Rose saw me carrying Col, she felt worried that he was going to slurp the entire pie of Mama-love, leaving nothing for her. So, Rose conjured up a kid version of a strategy to snatch some back for herself.
And sure, the strategy doesn’t necessarily fill me with the desire to affix the sobbing child to my other hip and lurch to the car. Truthfully, I felt protective of Col and annoyed that Rose wasn’t more empathetic to her sick brother. But Rose was born insanely healthy into a family with a child who has an underlying medical condition. And most of the time you’d never know, but when Col’s respiratory issues flare up, Dan and I go into high alert. We ferry Col to pediatricians and naturopaths; we ply him with breathing treatments, supplements and herbal syrups that Rose would drink for breakfast if she could. When Col’s been so sick that he’s landed in ER for respiratory distress, Rose begged for a turn with the oxygen mask.
Christensen suggests that naming that underlying need, without the intention to fix it, says: “I see you, I hear you.” For example, I could have said to limping, sobbing Rose, ”You’re really wanting some special attention, huh? You’re wishing I’d carry you to the car. Being held feels good.”
This doesn’t mean that carrying her – fixing it – is appropriate or helpful. But letting her know she’s OK for feeling jealous, for wanting attention (without shaming or punishing her) is appropriate and helpful.
The crazy thing about this use of empathy, is that being seen without judgment or fixing is often enough. If I can stay put while the storm rages around me, loving my children unconditionally, acknowledging what I see (“oh, you’re really mad that your sister’s not ready to share her new pens” or “you want milk now, but I want you to use a nicer voice and you’re frustrated“) my children will often come up with their own solution. And the sun will smile upon us again.
Reach Rachel Turiel at sanjuandrive@frontier.net. Visit her blog, 6512 and growing, on raising children, chickens and other messy, rewarding endeavors at 6,512 feet.
