Does This Approach Work?

A Sliding Doors Comparison

Could not get enough of this color in the Costco parking lot.

Does it work? No.

Will it work for my kid? No.

Does this approach work for kids with [insert diagnosis]? Also no.

This approach doesn’t work.

It doesn’t work when I make the assumption that what is meant by “work” is loosely translated to “allow me to control my child so that they are always easy, never embarrass me, always do what I ask.” Or if “work” means “fix my kid’s diagnosis so I never see this behaviour again.”

However, if I come to nonviolence with a realistic lens, an acceptance that whenever humans are together conflict arises (the key is in how we resolve conflict), and a desire to come through our children’s childhood with our mutual connection, trust, mattering and belonging as intact as possible, then I say, yes, this approach works.

This does not make it a one-size-fits-all approach. It makes it tailorable, by whoever is in a leadership position, to themselves and their little ones. I don’t know of a diagnosis for which respect, acceptance, and understanding, being seen and heard is contraindicated.

Bringing nonviolence into our relationships allows us to let go of the silver bullet expectation and move along a spectrum, from shame, coercion, analysis, diagnosis, manipulation, punishments towards co-regulation, listening, understanding, seeing, believing, acceptance, supporting, guiding, collaborating, trusting, authenticity, honesty and openness.

I still get to be human, and model self-acceptance, as well as needs-based repairs. (Also, here.) My children see me as a mummy with limitations. (Imagine that! There’s a limit to how much noise Mummy can tolerate.)

When my kiddo is in the middle of a meltdown and begins to throw things, my sensitive observation lets me know they’re likely hungry. I also know that they’ve just turned off screens and that, generally, transitions after screens are hard. My observation may also register that so far, only pillows and blankets have been thrown. I may notice that seeing all the couch pillows and blankets on the floor stimulates some overwhelm in me. Noticing that, I can breathe into it. I can tell myself, it’s not for ever. Of course I want the living room tidy. And that’s not what this moment is about.

Now, if I began yelling, shaming, threatening to spank their butt, threatening to lock them in their room, I’ll give them something to cry about and they can damn well go to bed without dinner ‘cause I sure as hell won’t have a child that behaves that way at my dinner table, what effect will that have?

Knowing that in the middle of a meltdown/tantrum, children have zero access to their prefrontal cortex, and therefore can’t hear me let alone reason, I can assume that this time is no different. They didn’t hear me or reason.

The likelihood is that this would escalate, and I might follow through on one or all of the threats. Effect is child is emotionally alone, with no one in their corner. The child feels shame and fear. Connection is lost. Trust is lost.

But if, instead, I stuck with my sensitive observation, and self-connection, I might go sit near my melting child. They might scream at me that they hate me, or they hate what we’re having for dinner, or I’ve ruined their evening, that this has been the worst day ever and it’s all because of me. I would be calm and nod along, hearing how hard of a time they’re having. I might say, “I hear how mad you are right now.” And they might double down with, “Yes! And it’s all because of you!”

They may decide that they want to be close enough to me, and also find themselves fighting an impulse to kick me. I might say, “I don’t want to be kicked. I’ll come back and check on you in a few minutes.” They might respond with louder screams and clinging to me, but less kicking, more jerky body movements which substitute for kicking.

Slowly, they might get less angry and more clingy. And we might approach the dinner table together, with them clinging to me, making a short walk from the living room seem very long. They might move their chair as close to mine as possible and they might still cling to me once we have sat down.

Then, I might pick a morsel of their favorite from the table laden with foods that kiddo has declared “disgusting” and they won’t eat. In this instance, I offer the single, crispy side of a roast potato. They pick it up defensively. I speak only to other people at the table. Meanwhile, I slice off a second crispy side, and quietly place it on their plate.

Within 15 minutes, a large meal has been eaten and much of the conversation is the amusing anecdotes from this same kiddo’s day. After they’re done, I ask if they can please pick up the cushions in the lounge. Off they bounce to make some fun out of a mundane task. (Fine with me if they throw cushions back, instead of placing them gently.)

So with these sliding doors of response, we have wound up at the end of the day. In one universe, child is in bed, hungry, shamed, scared to come out, possibly with a sore butt, but definitely alone and lonely. But hey! The couch cushions are on the couch and the house is a bit quieter.

In the other universe, the cushions are also on the couch, child is fed, calm, regulated, seen, heard, understood. They feel in their body that they matter and that they belong in our family and at our dinner table. Did I mention the cushions are on the couch?

In the first universe, no learning happened. I did not teach my child that “they can’t behave this way.” I did not teach my children not to disrespect me. Not when they can’t reason. Not when I’m modeling scary, dysregulated behaviour. All they know is I’m mad, they’re scared, there’s no connection or safety.

In the second universe, co-regulation happened, which plants the seed (or waters it) for future skills in self-regulation when sufficient maturation and neurological wiring has occurred.

It’s the long game.

So again, no this doesn’t work. Except it does, in so many more wonderful ways.