Echo Parenting & Education

“I used to dream that with enough schooling/therapy/vitamins/time Aidan would fight his way out of his [autism] diagnosis and into his “real” self: a boy, who talks about his day and calls his friends and fights with me about musical tastes and TV time. I had this vision of another person entirely separate from Aidan and was convinced that the autistic Aidan wasn’t really him. This perspective was tough for both of us. It took time for me to really meet Aidan in the Here and Now, rather than constantly chasing down his potential, future, “normal” self. – Kate Movius

Sometimes our parenting struggles are due to the gap between expectations we might have for our child, and the truth of who our child is.  What does it mean to accept our children just as they are?

Andrew Solomon’s recent book “Far From the Tree” is filled with stories about parents whose children are quite different from the “typical” child (deaf, autistic, prodigies, dwarf…) and thus are “far from the tree” (identity/qualities of the parents).  He interviewed over 300 families for his project and tells their stories filled with grace and acceptance, and also deep suffering. None of these parents chose to have a child with these differences, but they did choose how they responded.  They could spend their time mourning the “perfect” child who never existed, or come to love and know the very real child right in front of them.

When we take the time to reflect on the “why” and “how” of our disappointment or frustration with our child’s behavior, we may come to understand that our feelings (afraid, vulnerable, sad, annoyed) are coming from our own deep un-met needs.

Every time I find myself lost in a thought (worry) about my child’s academic future, emotional health, social connectedness — I am probably not paying attention to the child who is right in front of me who wants me to listen to a story about his day, or play a game, or just simply be present.

An example:  I pick my fourth grader up at school and he hands me a story he wrote.  I scan the page, and as I read, I notice numerous spelling errors, some of them simple words I thought he knew how to spell.  My thought process/inner voice might sound something like this:

“Wow.  He misspelled “says.”  How is that possible?  Is this related to the fact that he doesn’t spend much time reading to himself?  He worked so hard on that vision therapy last summer, and I thought that he would start to read more, and become a better speller.  Is this going to click at some point?  What is going to happen in two years when he is in a school setting that emphasizes things like spelling, not to mention those standardized tests.”

In a matter of seconds, I can be carried away in a wave of self-blame and worry.  Meanwhile, my son is wondering what I have to say about the fabulous story he wrote.  If I am not careful I will miss the moment, or even worse, say something that creates disconnection and shame (like “I thought you knew how to spell “says.”)

I will have missed an opportunity to be present to my son’s creativity and joy at being a writer, because I am thinking about who he “should” be, or fear of what might happen two years in the future!

Of course this doesn’t mean we should ignore real needs our children might have (for tutoring, therapy etc.) but that we not allow our focus on helping our child overcome their challenges to keep us from celebrating who they are right now.

Every day, in fact, in every moment, we have the ability to truly see and be with our children in all their imperfect (and therefore perfect) glory.

To read more from Kate Movius about her son, follow this link.

Enjoy! — Rebecca

Okay, time to get real. It’s not all “hugs and bunnies” at our house. There is, of course, some drama. A lot more now that he’s six and a half because of where he is developmentally. Any seemingly small injustice can quickly become a major crisis. Of course he would much rather build fantastic Lego contraptions than sit down in a chair and eat oatmeal before being rushed off to a place with a lot of (to him) arbitrary rules and obligations.  Who wouldn’t? So, every morning is a hustle. Every morning, I have to constantly remind my son to finish breakfast and put on his clothes so we can get to school on time, while also getting done whatever else needs to be done. This requires much patience, a lot of breathing, and a healthy dose of self-empathy – none of which I had the first two days of school this week.

From the moment I walked into the kitchen Monday morning, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the seemingly endless tasks to be finished in a short amount of time. I could feel the tension and stress rising in my body. However, I chose to ignore my body and instead, focused on what I thought “needed to be done.” That’s when my jackal surfaced.

The jackal, for those who may not know, is the voice of the societal (or cultural) dominant paradigm. Marshall Rosenberg, creator of Nonviolent Communication, calls the language of evaluation the “language of the jackal.” The jackal is the part of us that criticizes and shames, and wants only to judge and correct behavior without looking to see what’s underneath. The jackal is not curious about needs or feelings – not even its own.

When my jackal  emerged, it was ugly.  And when I say ugly, I mean Ugly. It was loud and mean. What could it have possibly wanted that it had to sound so scary? Well, to start, it really wanted compliance. It wanted control. It wanted things to go its way, in a particular order, within a specific amount of time. It most certainly did not want to be ignored. How did the jackal make its point—attempt to get itself “heard”? It stomped around and shouted. It threatened. It banged pots and pans. And then, it even attempted “reverse psychology” and pretended it didn’t care.

And of course, the jackal does care. It is my jackal.

For I imagine the jackal – with all of its shouting and yelling and banging – wants to be heard, to be seen, just as we all do. It needs to feel love, connection and acceptance just as I do. Just as my child does! The difference is that the jackal’s strategies to meet its needs can be really scary to a six year old. Or a two year old. Or a fourteen year old. So what’s a parent to do?

In the past, if I allowed my inner jackal to take over, I would have spent a lot of time mentally beating myself up afterward. “How could you yell at him like that?! What kind of mother are you?! How many parenting classes have you taken?! You know better!!”

Berating myself, however, is only time and energy lost for reconnecting with my son (and with myself). Blaming and judging myself doesn’t help us to get  back to the place of mutual trust and understanding. So what do I do instead?

I take a big breath to help me regulate and get back to my higher brain. My sole objective right now is to repair the rupture. This means that how I communicate with him from here on is critical.

Our bodies can be amazing tools of communication. For instance, after I’ve taken a couple of deep breaths, I sit down on the ground so I can be at his level. I don’t want to tower over him. I sit with my arms at my side, palms facing up so he can see that I am available to listen. (Sometimes this position acts almost like a switch and he’ll immediately come over to sit in my lap, even if he is really upset and angry with me.) I use my voice to also reassure him. My tone is calm and soft: “Wow, I was having some really big feelings and I can see that you are upset. I imagine seeing mommy that angry was scary and confusing.”

Seeing me down on the ground, at his level, and hearing me speak softly to him, he can relax. He knows that he has a safe space in which to either sit in my lap and get a hug or hang back for a bit to download some of his own feelings about what happened. I listen, with openness and curiosity because I want him to know that I care about his experience of what happened. And, although I don’t want to burden him with my own triggers or heavy emotions, I can say, “I was feeling anxious about getting to school on time and I wish I had said it aloud instead of freaking out.”

Much of my frustration and anxiety in the morning is not caused by my child’s different sense of time or his preferring to work on an ongoing lego project. Perhaps, I am feeling anxious and scared because of the massive responsibility of preparing my child to live in the world as an emotionally and physically healthy being? If he can’t put on his shoes without me having to tell him a million times, how is he going to make it?!

All that anxiety can be exhausting. Fortunately, I have a good set of tools and a strong connection with others on this journey.  I have the ability to observe, reflect, empathize, regulate, reconnect and repair.

So, before the jackal has a chance to emerge — I get to recommit myself to my practice of nonviolence and model the type of person that I want to raise.  One who is dedicated to empathy, who can make mistakes, learn and grow.  I want to remind myself that how my son will grow to be emotionally healthy and resilient, is to have a parent that he can depend on and trust. Much of how I prepare him for life depends on how I care for him, connect with for him and value him as a person.

No one said nonviolent parenting is easy. We are human beings that parent. Humans with our own needs and feelings. What’s critical is that we learn to identify our own needs and feelings and learn to express them in such a way that doesn’t physically or emotionally hurt our children. And, although I am by no means an ideal model of nonviolent parenting — I still get impatient, I still react in ways that are not helpful or empathetic, I still have moments where I lose connection with my son — classes and support from my community at Echo Parenting & Education have given me the tools to quiet the jackal, to understand and compassionately manage the Big Feelings, whether they are my son’s or my own. And when I get off track, and I do, I can literally take a deep breath and begin again.

Echo Parenting & Education is excited to bring Bruce D. Perry, M.D., Ph.D. for a thought-provoking evening!
Wednesday, March 6th 7-9 PM at the Wilshire Boulevard Temple (3663 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90020)
Dr. Bruce Perry, an internationally known expert on the impact of trauma on children, will explain how empathy develops, why it is essential for our happiness and the functioning of society, and how it is threatened in the modern world.

Echo Parenting & Education is a leader in the movement to transform child raising through the practice of nonviolence. We teach parents and professionals an empathy-led practice that is rooted in nonviolence, and the science of brain development, and is grounded in the knowledge that to raise healthy children, adults must be in a relationship with children through an unconditional emotional connection.

Dr. Perry is the Senior Fellow of the ChildTrauma Academy (www.ChildTrauma.org), a Houston-based organization dedicated to research and education on child maltreatment.

$30 – RSVP online. If you have questions please feel free to contact Azucena at (213) 484-6676 x311

NOW WITH SPANISH TRANSLATION AND ASL INTERPRETATION IF NEEDED.  Please let us know!