LIS I’m tuning into Marvin Gaye Radio on Pandora and taking an enormous breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Qigong breathing.
Krista Tippett* interviewed children’s author Kate DiCamillo. They talked about telling children the truth rather than sugar coating, white lying, or straight-out lying.
So, how do we tell our kids the truth and somehow make it bearable?
I’ve been parenting for nearly forty six years and at this moment my brain is exhausted from trying and failing to come up with an answer, any answer, to this question.
The unbearable truth is—we are facing too many unbearable truths.
Our brains are fried. Our hearts are crushed but…
Thirty five or so years ago, I read we adults should only answer the specific questions our kids ask. No more. No less. The idea is don’t volunteer answers to questions our kids don’t ask. Many experts still espouse this.
I seriously tried using this theory as part of my parenting style. I frequently failed at it.
Today my forty something daughter asked me if she should tell her nine year old daughter about the massacre in Uvalde, Texas.
Mind you; we were talking about my precious grand kid. A child of my child. Of course, my first inclination was to hold dear to, “Wait until she asks you about it.”
So I did. So I said it.
We continued to speak and weep and even scream about Uvalde.
It didn’t take me long after the call to have regrets, to realize my best advice to my daughter should have been beseeching her to broach the subject of Uvalde with her daughter.
I share with you below a few of the exhausted(tive) random and stream of consciousness thoughts crossing my brain and heart since the call with my daughter.
Chew hard on my thoughts. Then swallow or spit.
We cannot trust (or expect) social media, the TV or a babysitter to convey horrifying truths to our kids.
What better precedent is there than sharing the most difficult truths—with our children— always with love, integrity and respect?
Our kids are strong and smart. Most of them already have parent bullshit detectors, which, by the way, will serve them well in developing critical thinking skills. Nine is not too young to start! Or even six or seven. You decide when the time is right but please don’t wait too long.
I was lucky. My kids were already in their twenties when September 11, 2001 happened. I rarely had to share awful truths with them when they were little kids—and so many awful truths so close together—the Covid pandemic, mass murders, corruption at all levels of government, book burnings, a divided country, attacks on voting rights…
Our children have the right and the need to learn truths—the good—the bad and, yes, the ugly—about American history and about the new histories we are making each day.
And the whys too.
We are all beneficiaries and victims of our vast technologies—sometimes what seems true one minute mutates into something different in minute two. If we only focus on truth one, we will miss truth two or three…
Encourage kids to ask questions—no matter how annoying some of these questions will be. Help kids dig into the questions they ask. Give them positive reinforcement for their questions. The better kids get at asking questions, the better they can get at figuring out truth. And the less likely it is they will become victims of conspiracy theories, political manipulation, two bit con-artists or worse.
My daughter believes she has inherited the worry gene. She’s absolutely terrified she has passed the gene on to her children. Every body worries. It’s normal to worry. Worry makes us think twice. Measure twice. Cut once.
Grieving is also okay.
Open our kids’ eyes to the freedom and to the power of making choices. Discuss why the right to make choices is not an entitlement. It’s a precious gift and a serious responsibility.
Our choices will have consequences.
Try your best to be fair, kind and respectful to your kids. Expect them to be fair, kind and respectful to you and others.
It’s not all doom and gloom. There must be some good stuff happening. Right?
Of course there is!
*Host of ON BEING. Check her out on public radio.
And…I have Ukraine in me.
My dad’s dad was born in Kiev circa 1890. His name was Morris Ernest. I’m convinced Ernest was not his original surname. I suspect he borrowed it when he came to the United States. But it stuck. If you asked him where he was from he would say Kiev in Russia. Pressed, he would say, “It’s all Russia!” He was a man of short stature, a furniture maker with powerful hands, quick temper and a booming voice. As a boy, he had been a member of a traveling children’s choir. Every time he set eyes on Pat and me he pinched our cheeks—making marks which took hours to fade away. He said the harder he pinched, the more he loved us.
He absolutely adored us.
PS I just got a hold of the book White Bird by RJ Palacio.
PPS Where are the heroes when you need them most?
Exhale.
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