The Good News About Bad Behavior

by Katherine Reynolds Lewis

  “What’s the problem that you’re solving in that moment?” Hoefle pressed.

  Green raincoat was still at a loss.

  “That’s what’s tripping you up,” Hoefle said.

  “How to repair the door,” suggested a pregnant mom.

  “Yes! The problem is the door has markers on it. You’re trying to make the kid the problem,” Hoefle said.

  “So make him clean the door?” green raincoat asked.

  “Make him? Well, you could try. Good luck with that.”

  More chuckles.

  Instead, Hoefle suggested, the mother could ask her four-year-old, “‘So you wrote on the doors. How did that start?’ I want to know what got him excited, so I can give him good information. ‘Uh huh. What did you think would happen when we saw the door?’ I always smile when I say that because then they think, Maybe I’m not going to get in trouble.”

  She continued with the mock conversation between the mom and child after she discovered the marks on the door.

  “Actually, I didn’t know.”

  “Okay, that’s good information, you didn’t know. If you had to guess, now, what might happen, what would you guess?”

  “No TV?”

  “Nope,” Hoefle said, voicing the mom’s response in the mock conversation.

  “I don’t know.”

  “‘The door has to get cleaned,’ the mom will explain. ‘So how do you do that?’ I lead them right in. I already know where the path is. I’m just moving them to the idea that of course the door is going to get cleaned and would they like to use the Brillo pads? ‘Do you know where they are? No? Would you like me to go into the kitchen with you?’”

  The room fell completely silent as the parents processed these ideas.

  “Truthfully, I don’t care about the door,” Hoefle said. “I could give two craps about the door. If my kid was diagnosed with an illness, I can tell you I wouldn’t care about the door or the markers on the door. I have to put that in perspective all the time. Is this something that’s going to get me cranked up? No way in hell. It’s a learning opportunity.

  “My house is not on the market. I don’t have a realtor coming to show it. What do I want to teach my child? That people make mistakes. This is an opportunity to take responsibility for that mistake, to learn to think before you do things, which is a lifelong skill, and then to make amends. That’s it. Same thing a million times.”

  She encouraged the class to slow the whole process down, to engage their children’s brains in solving the problem and planning the next steps. It’s not magic, but just a matter of parents keeping their cool and understanding that the problem isn’t that the child did something bad.

  “The problem is: there’s markers on the door. Now we can get him involved. But not if we say he’s the problem. Then we have to fix him. There’s nothing wrong with him. He made a mistake,” she said.

  MIKAELA SELIGMAN, FORTY-SEVEN, WAS HOLDING forth about politics, leaning her shoulder against the pale green wall of the dining room. Her four-year-old son, Jesse, barreled into the room and thumped up against her side. With tangled, shoulder-length brown hair, wide eyes, and an oversized striped sweater, he resembled a character from Mercer Mayer’s Little Critter books. He began punching her thigh, urgently.

  “Jesse,” said her husband, Ben Temchine, forty-two, a dark-bearded man wearing a lumberjack-style shirt under his bulky sweater. “Can you come over and tell me what you want and I’ll get it, so Mom can finish what she was saying? I noticed because you’re hitting her.”

  Jesse trundled across the room to his dad, who squatted down to listen.

  “Is there dessert?” he asked.

  “There is dessert,” Ben replied. “As soon as I see it, I’ll come and get you.”

  Jesse seemed placated and was about to leave when his dad asked: “Can you check every now and then on the fire? Is it small or is it still big?”

  With purpose, Jesse zipped into the den, then returned to report: “It’s still big.”

  “Will you check every now and then?” Ben asked, standing back up in conversation with the rest of the parents. Jesse nodded and returned to the den where two six-year-olds, Alejandro and Chloe, were practicing gymnastics.

  “I have to check on the fire that it’s still big. I can’t let it get small,” he announced.

  The older kids made encouraging faces. He plopped down to watch their gyrations. Chloe’s mom, Nicole, watched also. Chloe paused as Jesse scooted his rear toward the wall, giving her space for a cartwheel.

  I noticed Ben’s skill in managing Jesse’s undue attention by listening to his concern, assuring him it would be addressed, and smoothly giving him a positive way to contribute by asking him to check on the fire. I could almost see Jesse stand taller as he shouldered the responsibility.

  Chloe took a running start and completed a cartwheel.

  “Your legs were straight up,” Nicole remarked, after applauding and giving Chloe a double thumbs-up. That was PEP-approved specific feedback describing her daughter’s pose, as opposed to the empty-calorie praise of a generic “good job.”

  “Alexia is so good,” Chloe said, referring to a classmate.

  “Yeah, she doesn’t give up,” her mom said.

  Chloe’s bottom lip curled into a tiny pout as she imagined her distant rival.

  “Keep going, keep practicing,” Nicole encouraged her.

  Chloe explained to her mom that she’d try another cartwheel later, in a room with no carpet.

  “I’m going to go upstairs,” she announced.

  But first, she needed to know the status of brownies. Once she was assured on that score, she raced up the stairs.

  In another setting, without the support of this group of like-minded friends, Ben might have noticed judgmental eyes on him while dealing with Jesse’s hitting. Nicole might not have felt free to watch rambunctious children with an eye to connecting rather than curbing their energy. Certainly, the children’s active play wouldn’t have been tolerated by just any group of friends. This community’s tacit acceptance made it easier for parents to connect, communicate, and build their children’s capability, all while everyone shared an enjoyable Saturday night.

  AVA APPEARED AT THE DOOR of my bathroom. I put down the blow dryer. This was odd. My sleep-loving child wearing shorts, sweatshirt, and backpack at 7:30 a.m. She even looked as if she’d brushed her teeth.

  “I’m ready,” she chirped. “Can we go to Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  It was nearly the end of the school year for Ava, ten, and Maddie, thirteen. The previous evening I had promised to take the kids to Dunkin’ Donuts before school as a special treat. We could go as long as everyone was 100 percent ready at 7:40 a.m., so we’d arrive at school on time at 8:15 a.m. We’d established that timeline through a family agreement at the beginning of the year.

  “Sure! Check on your sister to see if she’s ready,” I responded. Better finish up the hair quickly.

  Ava reappeared shortly, a sour look on her face.

  “She’s still in bed.”

  “Well,” I said, “maybe you can hurry her along.”

  This was another first. Usually Maddie’s the one on top of her game, up and dressed early. Ava disappeared.

  She returned with a wail. “She says she doesn’t want to go!”

  Uh oh.

  As you know by now, my children can throw epic tantrums. They kick furniture and doors. They knock over objects. Even at ten and thirteen, a mood could sweep over them that touched everyone in the house. It felt like an emotional tornado, perhaps especially because puberty was coming closer for both of them.

  “Mom, can you please take me to Dunkin’ and we’ll grab takeout and come back to get Maddie?”

  I considered the request. It wasn’t unreasonable. I could finish dressing for my work conference after I dropped the kids off. I’d already walked the dog.

  But would that be rescuing Ava? I thought back to Vicki Hoefle’s injunction that ev
ery child should face a challenge every day in order to learn courage and become capable. Surely she would tell me to let Ava experience her disappointment and rise to the challenge of managing her emotions and figuring out an alternative breakfast plan. She’d also remind me to be fair to myself, by not putting extra stress on my busy workday. I’ll stay connected to her, I resolved, even while saying no.

  “I’m sorry, honey, we agreed on 7:40, and she’s nowhere near ready. I can understand you being disappointed. I bet you can find something downstairs to eat,” I responded. I braced myself for high winds.

  “That’s not fair!” she shouted. “I was ready on time, and I won’t get to go because she’s not ready.”

  “I can really understand you being upset,” I replied, keeping my voice warm and empathetic. “It’s frustrating when you take care of your responsibilities but you can’t move ahead in the day because of someone else’s choices. Sometimes that’s part of being a family.”

  She stomped away. I picked up the flat iron, trying to ignore the sounds coming from the other room. Thump. Crash. I finished my hair and walked into the bedroom.

  Ava was lying on my bed, her face crumpled and tears on her round cheeks. There was no obvious property damage.

  “There’s nothing in the house to eat! I’m hungry and it’s all Maddie’s fault!”

  I sat beside her and put a hand on her leg. I resisted arguing about the state of our pantry: Brian had gone shopping a few days earlier and bought eggs, toast, cereal, and plenty of fruit. I ignored that Ava was blaming someone else for the condition of her stomach.

  I suggested a few food options. All were rejected.

  “What about blueberry muffins? I think we have some muffin mix, and there’s just enough time for you to cook,” I said.

  She jumped up to look in the pantry. I headed down the hall to find Maddie still in bed. Her stomach hurt. I gave her a hug and suggested a few remedies. When I walked downstairs, Ava was in tears again.

  “There’s no blueberry muffin mix! Only lemon poppy. I like the artificial blueberries,” she complained.

  I sympathized and expressed confidence that she could figure out breakfast. I gave her a little space while I fixed my coffee and apple slices. Suddenly, to my surprise, she decided that lemon poppy was acceptable. But she wondered aloud if we would have time. She decided to make mini-muffins so they’d bake quicker.

  “Mom, will you help me?” she asked.

  Even with tears still on her cheeks, she was beaming. I preheated the oven. She read the instructions on the package and assembled the ingredients efficiently. We worked together companionably. She insisted on taking the lead—she likes to mix up the dough and spoon it into the muffin tins.

  “I’m not giving any to Maddie,” she announced.

  “Even though she’s made breakfast for you so many times?”

  “The last time she made breakfast she said she was never going to do it again because I didn’t say thank you,” she said. “She even said ‘keys’ to me like I was a little kid. It was so condescending.” (Remember in Chapter 8, I described our family code word “keys” as a reminder to use good manners.)

  Another test of my resolve. Of course I want my children to be generous with each other. But it has to come from within. I can’t force it. I can only model generosity.

  “Well, it’s certainly your choice since you made these muffins,” I said. “But I wonder what will happen the next time she bakes something and you want a taste.”

  Ava bustled around. No response. I let her ponder.

  Maddie slumped into the kitchen. I gave her a hug and inquired about the stomach. Still tender but better. She took some fruit because she didn’t think she could eat anything else. Except maybe a muffin.

  “You can’t have any,” Ava said.

  I braced myself.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Maddie responded, with a hangdog look. Playing for sympathy.

  I bit my tongue. I grabbed the rest of my belongings and headed to the car. Ava started to pack up the muffins to eat on the ride to school. Maddie had left the room, so I leaned over and whispered: “Do you think you might want to bring an extra muffin in case you change your mind and let Maddie have one?”

  She nodded.

  I pulled the car to the front of the house and listened to NPR while waiting for the girls. Ava came out first. Cheerful and bursting with pride. I felt so relieved that I had resisted the many impulses I had to interfere with her opportunities to learn that morning. She’d managed to hit the trifecta: emotional regulation, problem-solving, and moral decision-making.

  Then Maddie emerged from the house with a muffin in her hand.

  Uh oh. Did she steal it when Ava wasn’t looking?

  I turned to look at my youngest child in the backseat. “Why does Maddie have a muffin?” I asked.

  “I gave it to her. But just one,” she responded.

  AT THE END OF THE night, the Cullen parents and the other adults gathered by the fire, talking about parenting and politics, water skiing and food. Before I even noticed that Eric had slipped out of the room, he was standing in the hallway with Sawyer and Chloe.

  “Sawyer, Chloe, do you want to say good-night?” asked Eric. The kids smiled their thanks at Ana and Chris.

  “You’re going skiing tomorrow?” Camila asked.

  “Yeah. We’re going skiing,” Sawyer replied.

  “All right, let’s go,” Eric whispered, and the kids looked around for their coats.

  How did that happen? I wondered to myself, annoyed that I didn’t notice the expert parenting moves Eric and Nicole must have deployed to pry their kids away from the Pokémon TV show upstairs. Then again, perhaps the kids were motivated to leave because they wanted to be well rested for their fun outing the next day.

  Eric dashed upstairs to look for a missing sock, while Ana reassured the group that nobody else needed to hurry to leave.

  “My kids will put themselves to sleep if they need to. They’re like, ‘Oh, we’re tired, good-night,’” she said.

  “Thank you for having us,” said Eric, returning from the upstairs level with socks and shoes in hand.

  Everyone gave kisses and hugs good-bye.

  “Thank you for hosting us,” Nicole said.

  Chloe waited in bare feet as her parents said good-bye.

  “Chloe’s patiently waiting,” Ben observed. Specific praise again.

  The Young-Pearson family walked out the door and into a mild February night. Ana watched from the window as they headed toward their car on Park Road, a windy, single-lane street that—while residential—is the primary route from the hip Mount Pleasant neighborhood into tony Cleveland Park.

  “I love how Nicole’s carrying Chloe’s shoes,” she said. “Chloe just lost her shoes. But she doesn’t care.”

  “Who?” Camila asked.

  “Chloe. She’s shoeless, but now Eric is carrying her,” Ana explained.

  “Nothing wrong with shoeless. There’s no glass,” Colin said.

  The conversation continued about favorite bookstores and restaurants, about the kids’ after-school routines.

  And then twenty minutes later, the same thing happened again. I looked up to see Camila standing with Alejandro and Mariana, obediently putting on their coats with absolutely zero argument. Even a flurry of excitement over a red wine spill didn’t distract them from leaving. Camila stood calmly with a bag slung over her shoulder as the children tied their own shoes.

  “We’ll see you. Ciao,” she said.

  “Ciao,” Ana responded.

  “Mariana, buenas noches,” said Colin, who was staying to help with cleanup from the party.

  “Y Papa?” Alejandro asked his mom.

  “Papa has to help with the carpet,” Camila explained.

  “Gracias, Camila, gracias, Alejandro. Buenas noches,” Andy said.

  And then, without a murmur of protest, the Cullen children left the party. This was quite a change from the hellions de
scribed in Chapter 1, and so different from the end of many multifamily parties, when sugared-up kids refuse to leave because they’ve been out of control for hours.

  I’VE FOUND MY OWN COMMUNITY through PEP leaders and students and through my neighborhood friends who accept my approach just as I accept their choices for their own children. Even the same philosophy looks different in different homes, after all.

  I hope everyone understands that writing a parenting book doesn’t make me an expert on what’s the best strategy for any given child. Truly, only the people in a relationship can fully understand its dynamics. Not only are you the person capable of the most insight into your child’s needs, you are the one who can best fill them.

  That said, it’s not enough to raise our own kids so that they grow up to be resilient, capable adults. They also need peers, spouses, and coworkers who aren’t crippled by anxiety, depression, and self-doubt. Our whole society needs to embrace the Apprenticeship Model. For that to happen, we need social support.

  You can start by finding or creating your tribe, such as an online or local parenting group, a book club, a religious community, or a discussion group. If you live in a neighborhood without other kids, look for ways to create some of the opportunities for spontaneous, kid-directed play of past generations, without putting children at risk. Maybe a babysitting coop or a regular playgroup can bring you and your family closer to where you want to be. You’d be surprised how quickly one family becoming more unscheduled can free up an entire community to disarm in the competitive parenting arms race.

  Expect to run into stumbling blocks as your children grow or your life changes. And I realize that some of the advice in this book may seem impossible for you to implement. How can you supervise homework if you’re at work until 6:00 p.m. while your child is in after-care? How can you get a teenager who barely speaks to you to do chores and agree to restrictions on screen time? Feel free to start small, taking the steps that seem to lead to the easiest changes. Open your mind to possibilities. Question those notions that you accept as truth, such as: I can’t take away my child’s phone when every other kid in the grade has access to screens at night. You never know how many other parents will jump on board once you’re brave enough to take a stand. Your child may even welcome the limits.