In a blog post last year, I said I’d write a post about my second daughter and how, through her, I learnt to be a better mother.
That was easier said than done, believe me. Once kids reach a certain age, it’s difficult to write about them other than in a general sense: They’re entitled to their privacy; they’re sensitive and self-conscious; and they’re easily embarrassed. As a parent, the last thing you want to do is add to all of that.
You also don’t want them to be judged, and people aren’t as forgiving of teenagers as they are of toddlers.
I have four children and all of them are different. Different temperaments, different interests, different talents. That means some are easier than others and that I have more in common with some than others. And it fluctuates. It’s not their fault, or mine; it’s just human nature.
I found parenting our first daughter easy—I used to tell people she didn’t need a mother. She was obedient, tried to please, put her heart and soul into everything—school, sport, music. She still does. She fitted the mould of ‘good’ child, and all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.
Then came Daughter #2. At not quite two years-of-age, she decided she didn’t want to wear a nappy, and, no, even though we were going out, she wouldn’t put one on just in case. Nor would she wee before we went.
She was particular about her clothes—they had to be pink. In the middle of winter, she’d wear only singlet tops. In pink. And the higher the heel on the shoe, the better.
She didn’t like school and wasn’t particularly interested in any subject, except music. At the end of primary school, she won a violin scholarship, but seven weeks into high school, she gave it up.
She went to school only to see her friends and they talked make-up, nail polish, fashion—especially shoes—, movies, celebrities—especially the Kardashians—and MasterChef. If it was a friend’s birthday, she spent the night before baking cupcakes for the class. Her homework might have been incomplete and she may not have studied for the test the next day, but the cupcakes were baked. And iced.
I tried to laugh off her carefree attitude towards school, but at the same time, I worried about her future. What if she failed? What if she didn’t graduate? What if she didn’t get into Uni? I tried to talk to her about it, but increasingly her door was shut. Slammed shut.
I kept hoping that one day she’d realise the importance of school and study and learning, and that she’d change. But the years passed and, still, she showed no interest. The big crunch came when she got 3/20 for a Human Biology assignment. Her father and I were rather upset because, being doctors, we knew a bit of human bio and could have helped. If we’d been asked. We were even more upset because the assignment was on the lung, and her father’s a respiratory physician.
There was a lot of lecturing from us, and yelling and door-slamming from her, and I spent many sleepless nights. I could see our approach wasn’t working. In fact, it was driving her further away, but I didn’t know how to fix it.
Because I still wanted to hold onto my values—that study and learning were important—and I wanted her to change. I wanted her to become like us; to fit in; to be who we wanted her to be.
At the same time, through all the yelling and the screaming and the slamming doors, I could hear her frustration because we weren’t hearing her.
In the end, I decided I had to change. It had to start with me. I was the adult, after all, and the bottom line was, I wanted her to be happy.
So, I did three things:
Firstly, I let go of worrying about her school marks. And I mean really let go. Whether she studied or not was her choice. So when I saw her baking, I didn’t ask if she had study she should be doing. I stopped asking if she had a test coming up or an assignment due, or telling her that if she wanted a tutor, she only had to ask. And I stopped asking about her marks.
Secondly, I made sure we did something together at least once a week. Sometimes it was a walk, sometimes a movie. A couple of times, I even went for a mani/pedi with her, even though I hate having my toenails filed.
We both love classical music, so our special treat was the Opera. No matter what had happened at home, as soon as we walked out the door, we were friends. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between us.
Thirdly, I started using the phrase, ‘Tell me more …’
When she was angry and yelling at me, instead of telling her to stop yelling, I said, ‘Tell me more: What am I doing that’s upsetting you?’
She told me, and sometimes she said things I thought were wrong or unfair, but instead of correcting her or defending myself, I said, ‘Tell me, what would you like me to do instead?’
It was hard to resist the urge to correct or defend and just listen, but it was powerful. I began to hear what she really thought.
I heard how, because no one shared her interests and she didn’t share ours, she felt alone in the family.
I heard how when everybody else did well and she didn’t, she felt stupid.
I heard how she was mean to her brothers because she wanted them to know what it felt like to be her.
I heard how much she hated it when I laughed at her nail polish collection, how we seemed to think she was superficial because she liked shoes and the Kardashians, and how we didn’t ‘get’ her.
I heard how she loved singing and music and music history, and foreign films and animals and children.
I heard how she wanted to go to the Academy of Performing Arts and become an opera singer.
All along, she’d been trying to tell us and show us, and we’d been ignoring her, trying to make her the same as us.
But as soon as I began using those words, Tell me more, everything changed. A respect, a mutual respect, replaced the anger. And a tenderness. I started getting pats on the arm, or an arm around my shoulders. And the nickname, ‘Lulu’.
I get visits of a night for ‘girl-chats’, and we talk about how similar we really are: How both of us keep our dreams close to our chests; how both of us have passionate natures; how both of us are determined; and how both of us resist people trying to mould us to fit.
And one day, when her brother told her he was annoyed at her, I heard her say, ‘Tell me, what have I done?’ And when he told her, she answered, ‘And what would you like me to do instead?’
I saw the changes in her brought about by the changes in me.
I’m in awe of her and how she managed to stay true to herself despite the pressure to change. In my concern for her marks and study, I lost sight of all the beautiful things about her, and no wonder she felt alone and unhappy in our family.
Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I wonder what might have happened for me, if instead of seeing the faults in the daughter in front of her, my mother had seen the beauty.
Our first daughter was easy and unchallenging and let me off lightly—I didn’t have to examine my mothering.
But this daughter taught me how to be a good mother. She taught me, too, that we don’t always know what’s best for our kids. That if we just let them grow into who they want to be, they become something so much more beautiful than anything we could have imagined.
And here’s the proof:
Oh Louise, this is beautiful, honest and just … such a wonderful reflection on parenting. I am reading this with tears in my eyes, wishing I had read this a year or more ago. What a powerful technique. Will it work on my son? I don’t know. But the way you’ve described your Alex, reminds me so much of my Monkey, and you’ve given me hope. X
Monique, I have no doubt it would work on your son, and don’t worry—it’s never too late. I probably should have done it a year before I did, too.
My daughter and I were in a pretty negative spiral, and it just turned it around. I wasn’t sure it would work, either, but it felt right. Within two weeks, I could notice a difference, and from there, it just went up as she began to trust me more. I think teenagers, like everyone, need to feel they’re being listened to and their feelings respected. They’re very reasonable if you give them a hearing.
I could say a lot more, but maybe over coffee! Thanks for your lovely comment. x
A beautiful and insightful post which I’m afraid makes all the rest of the world’s parents cringe with unworthiness (well, at least this one)! Thank you.
Jim, please don’t feel unworthy. Honestly, I could write pages on all the mistakes I’ve made as a parent. I used to worry that I’d done harm, and of course, there was no way of knowing if I had until they’d grown up.
All you can do is try your hardest, make sure your kids know you love them, and say sorry when you stuff up. And if something needs fixing, like it did here, you fix it.
I’m sure you’re doing a great job. Best wishes.
Of course, you’re right. Thank you for the encouragement. Not sure if I’m doing a good job or not. I suppose I’ll know when they write their memoirs! 🙂
That’s the thing, Jim, we don’t find out if we’ve done the right thing for at least ten years! 🙂
Oh this is so great!
I must have been like your first daughter, I did not challenge a lot of things…
It has taken me years to figure out what I really want (things I already wanted to be and do as a teen but often put aside).
You are so right—obedience comes at a cost to the obedient child, because they do what others want and not what they want. It can take a long time to learn to listen to themselves. I’m glad you’re learning to do that. Keep going! x
You must be so proud!
Thanks, Elizabeth! I’m very proud of her—passionate, creative, determined children are wonderful!
Oh, I loved this and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you for sharing your story. And your daughter is absolutely amazing.
Thank you, Alli! I’ll be so pleased if it helps—that’s why I posted it. Saying, ‘Tell me more …’ isn’t something you think to do when you’re child is yelling at you, but believe me, it works. It defuses the situation and once your child’s been given a hearing, they settle. Not just that, but when they know that you understand their perspective, they come and talk to you, knowing they don’t have to yell at you to listen to them anymore!
Thanks for commenting. 🙂
Louise this is so raw and honest and wise. I’ll be using your phrase with my own kids now. Thank you for being so open about your parenting struggles – it makes the rest of us feel less alone!
So nice to hear from you, Fiona! There’s loads of blogs about toddlers and young children, but there’s not many on the teenage years, because of privacy, etc., I imagine. I found this worked for me, and wanted to share it with people. Thanks again for your lovely comment. x
How beautiful. Thank you for this inspiring story. And for sharing your daughter’s lovely performance with us.
Thanks, Christina! I’m glad you found it inspiring, and liked the performance—she’s at home on a stage!
Louise – this is pure magic. What an exquisite post, and lessons in there for all of us. Truly beautiful and insightful x
Thanks for your lovely comment, Michelle! I guess there are lessons in it for everyone— we don’t just have to apply it in our relationships with our kids, but with everyone. x
Ahhh Louise, once again your golden words shine a light into my own family. My family is only little, but I can see the path ahead of us, and I know if I try now, right NOW to use those words ‘tell me more’ rather than the less-than-charitable words I have been known to shout in the heat of the moment, perhaps I can save some heart ache for us all.
Thank you.
It’s just listening to your kids and you probably do it better than you think, Shannon. Go easy on yourself for shouting less-than-charitable words in the heat of the moment—we’ve all done it!
In this instance, I thought I had the moral high ground, because study and learning are important, and I wouldn’t be a caring parent if I didn’t worry about it. I also didn’t want to listen to her when she was yelling at me, so I’d tell her to leave the room, which further inflamed things. It seemed counter-intuitive to say, Tell me more, to someone shouting at you, and it did take a lot for me to to say it sometimes. But the result was priceless.
“Tell me more” three little words that when translated mean “I love you”. Perhaps it’s not too late to speak those to my stepson though he’s 35 married with children of his own. You give me hope.
I don’t think it’s ever too late, Penny. What’s the worst that can happen? He could refuse to speak to you, or say something horrible and hurtful. At least you’ve said what you want to say, and opened the door. And who knows—it might be the start of a healing.
Best wishes, Penny. xx
Penny, I should have also said that you are right—the words, ‘Tell me more …’ mean ‘I love you’. They say, ‘I care about you’ and ‘I want to know what is hurting you’. They’re very powerful.
Louise, I thought the name LuLu today, wondered if anyone used the endearment for you, now I know why. You write from the heart, often of redemption. I garner morsels of understanding from each of your pieces… this is my favourite. I learnt “tell me more”, but failed in my telationship attempts, now I know why, I was committed to an outcome, not listening. I love how you turned this around, your date nights at the opera and your sweet girl loving being who she is and encouraged. Well done on every pink level and no, no hooch has passed these lips.
Redemption! I like that, because nothing, no one, and no relationship is irredeemable. And I like your insight into why ‘Tell me more’ didn’t work for you. I believe you, because it had been the same for me. I’d listened to my daughter many times before, but always, always with my agenda about school and study. I didn’t want to let it go, but as soon I did, it just opened everything up between us.
Thanks for you lovely compliments about her, too!
‘Tell me more’ is my new most favourite phrase. I loved your daughter’s personality (probably not easy to parent such an independent child), and I love how she blossomed! It’s a credit to your parenting and loving care.
Thanks, Gulara. It’s my favourite phrase, too. And I’m glad you loved my daughter’s personality, because I do, too. Looking back, I can see she’s always been like it, and you’re right, these independent, passionate, creative, determined children aren’t the easiest to parent, but, boy are they worth it! I so enjoy her!
Ah, that’s wonderful, Louise. And very encouraging for me to read. I adore my children and your experience shows that it’s possible to parent well, even when we haven’t had similar experience ourselves.
Like you, Gulara, I knew that I didn’t want to mother the way I had been mothered, and I knew the way I did want to mother—with love and warmth and definitely no violence. I had a good education, I read as many books on child psychology and mothering as I could—they were my instruction manuals—and I spoke to other mothers and professionals to learn from them.
Throughout my kids’ childhoods, I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, and I didn’t know if it was going to work. I made mistakes and fell short of the incredibly high standards to which I held myself. But now my family’s mature-enough, I can see it’s worked. I know my kids are going to be okay—they’re not repeating my mistakes, and I’ve not repeated my family of origin. I feel as if I can exhale a little.
You’ll be fine parenting your kids, Gulara, because you’re aware, you have insight, you love them and show them you love them, and you’re trying your hardest. You’re doing a great job! x
I’m so glad you broke the cycle, Louise. It’s very reassuring.
I find it excruciatingly painful not to know, sometimes. I wished I have had a healthy model and didn’t try to figure out this whole parenting thing on my own, or do the exact opposite of what I would have experienced. Not helpful. Most of the time though I know if I love them fully and keep healing the past, things will get better and work out somehow.
And thank you for your kind words about me and my parenting 😀
Things will work out, Gulara—your kids will know you love and value them, and that’s the most important thing you can give them. Also, they’ll know you think they’re good, worthwhile people, and they’ll believe that about themselves. It’s hard to parent without a good role model, and your words, ‘do the exact opposite of what I would have experienced’, rang a bell with me. Doing the opposite isn’t best guide, but I think it’s better than doing the same, and sometimes, it’s also the only guide we have.
If you can, read Bessell van der Kolk’s ‘The Body Keeps the Score’—I found that book a game-changer. I can’t tell you how much it helped me understand myself. It made me view myself with compassion, and that was what I’d really been missing.
Oh, I remember you mentioning that book in one of your posts. I even looked it up but didn’t get as far as reading it. Perhaps it’s time now. Many thanks for bringing it to my attention and all your support, Louise.
If you don’t manage to buy Bessell van der Kolk’s book, he has a website, http://besselvanderkolk.net, with links to his research and interviews.
I listened to and loved an interview with him from On Being with Krista Trippett and there are a number of interviews on YouTube, too.
Happy reading and listening! xx
Any parent with more than one child will resonate to this post, Louise. And that you and your daughter have come through the struggle so powerfully and still intact is heartening. My family of origin is chockers with academic types, because that’s what my parents valued. But one of my brothers who struggled academically is now an artist. He uses his eyes and hands in ways none of us academic types can manage.
There are so many ways of expressing ourselves. I also thought about the way you daughter managed to do so poorly on the biology exam. What a sign of rebellion. And your remark that it was particularly galling because you and your husband as medicos could have helped if asked, and more so especially as your husband is a respiratory physician.
And then I smiled to myself at the thought of your daughter’s wonderful lungs as a singer. She uses them differently from how you might have first hoped for her. What a symbolic rejection that then becomes a wonderful re-statement of what’s most important to this one individual person, your second daughter.
I’m a second daughter too, but with many boys in between, and a completely different story, I still can recognise this struggle to find self expression.
Thanks for this, Elisabeth. I can imagine it was hard for your artistic brother to be himself in your family. I think it’s easier for children who innately share the family values, whatever they are, than for those who don’t. Some families value sport, for example, and you’d feel like a complete outsider in such a family if all you wanted to do was read or paint.
It’s hard as a parent because you look at the child you’ve birthed and sometimes wonder if they really did come from you!
But it’s harder for the child, and when they feel they’re being pressured to be something they’re not, they reject everything about the family, as if to say, ‘I’m an individual and don’t try to make me into someone I’m not.’ Then, when the parent backs off, the child relaxes, too, instead of having to consistently assert themselves, and you find a place to meet.
The bottom line is, I learnt a lot from parenting this daughter, and I’m certainly applying all of it to parenting my boys. I’ll make different mistakes with them, no doubt, but that’s what it’s all about— making mistakes, learning, doing better. All of our lives.
Wonderful, powerful post – thank you for sharing it Louise. I think many more people will be asking “Tell me more?” as a result, and appreciating the benefit. Although your experience was from parenting, I suspect the potential use goes much further than family relationships … the consulting room, office, boardroom, schools, sports, social situations … Useful as it is when confronted, how good would it be if we didn’t have to wait for conflict to ask our family, friends and colleagues this question? An empowering and engaging default (as long as we genuinely listen to the response as another commenter rightly points out).
I agree, Jac, that ‘Tell me more’ can be used in many situations. It’s easier to say it in the consulting room, for example, or socially, but it’s really, really hard to use it during conflict, when you’re wanting the other person to listen to what you have to say. But it defuses situations so quickly, and gives everyone a soft landing. In parent-child conflicts, in my view it’s up to the parent to say it, because they are the adult in the relationship.
I agree, too, about listening to the response you get without an agenda, and that’s hard, too.
Goodness, goodness me. I’m actually crying after reading this then listening to your daughter’s exquisite voice. Best post I’ve read ever, Louise.
Oh thank you, Pinky. I cried as I wrote this post, and I cry when I think about our relationship and how lovely it is now, but how volatile it was there for a while. I cry sometimes just watching her teeter about the kitchen in her heels and perfectly manicured nails, with her apron on as she whisks something in the mixmaster. And I’ll tell you a secret—I cry as I walk sometimes, listening to recordings of her singing that I’ve put into my iTunes. Thanks for your comment. xx
A beautifully written and moving post, Louise. I’ve always felt our children have as much – if not more – to teach us as we have to teach them. The greatest gift we can give them as parents is the space and the freedom to be who they are and not who we think they should be.
Thanks, Teena! I couldn’t agree more—I’ve learnt much, much more from my kids than I ever taught them. Thank heavens I had kids! And I agree about giving them space to just become who they want to be—I really don’t believe we have to do much more, other than put a cushioned bumper on the side of the path every now and then if they start to veer off.
Hello
I stumbled on this blog quite a while ago and I just love reading your fresh, insightful posts about writing and raising a family. I hope to read your book when it does come out. Writers are such interesting people and you are no exception.
You are such a wise and understanding parent. Your empathy with your children is very touching and I thought it was wonderful that, rather than trying to coerce your daughter to live a particular life plan you embraced and accepted her individuality and gave her (in a way) your blessing.
Out of curiosity, have you read ‘Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother’ by Amy Chua? Your daughters are so similar to her two daughters, and you both even have the same nickname for the younger daughter (Lulu)
Please post soon and I look forward to your book reaching the shelves and entertaining and enriching the lives of many a reader,
Thanks for reading and commenting, Jess, and I’m glad you enjoy my posts and are looking forward to my book, if it ever hits the shelves!
I have read ‘Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother’, and yes, the pairs of siblings are similar. I have a tiger mother side to me, too, that I have to keep in check, and my younger daughter let me know in no uncertain terms that she was going to set her own pathway in life.
Thanks for reading, and I will keep posting!
I did read this post last week and thought it so profound – apologies for taking so long to comment! And what a lesson it is – I think it’s something we can apply to any challenging relationship, that sometimes we need to change our own approach in order to effect further change. It shows that our children have as much to teach us as we have to teach them – I know my own daughter changed my life profoundly, forcing me to decide what sort of person I wanted to be for her, and I could not be more blessed.
Your daughter has grown into such a talented, beautiful young woman, and your technique for helping her is such a powerful tool for growth. And what a marvellous voice she has – I have goosebumps listening to her.
Parenting is just about the most difficult thing ever, because it is bound with so much love and expectation, despite our best intentions. I know I struggle with it at times, and my daughter is only nine! I always try to remember the Kahlil Gibran passage regarding children: ‘Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.’
I agree with everything you’ve written in your comment, Helen. I’ve learnt so much from my kids, and I’m so grateful to them for that, and glad that I could open myself to learning from them. My kids are all so different, and at times I’ve wondered how four unique and different people could come from the same two parents, but isn’t it wonderful that things like that happen!
You’re right about being able to use the, ‘Tell me more …’ phrase in challenging situations, especially when you’re the one who’s meant to be the ‘adult’ and therefore the listener. As I’ve said in earlier comments, it really helps defuse situations and develops a mutual respect—someone who’s been heard is much more likely to listen.
I love the Kahlil Gibran poem, too. It really is about letting our kids become who they want to be, and not who we want them to be, even when we do it with good intentions or in line with societal expectations.
Thanks, as always, for your thoughtful insights. x
Thanks for another lovely post 🙂 xx
Thanks, Helen. ????