try harder
a letter to every parent who’s been judged for simply raising a child.
“Look, I get it. My son is intense.
He’s a 4-year-old boy full of energy. Which means: Running. Jumping. Yelling. Laughing. Crying. Jumping again. Everything’s funny. Everything’s big. Everything is life happening in its purest, rawest form. His nervous system isn’t yet able to regulate all this energy. He’s “a handful”, and he’s learning and we’re learning alongside him how to support him best.
But he’s a 4 year-old boy full of energy. Full of life. And he won’t turn into a discreet mouse just because of your discomfort. Nor will I ask him to. So thank you, really, for letting us know how you feel. But I’m afraid your request isn’t acceptable.”
That’s what I should have replied to the angry neighbour who came banging at my door last night.
Instead, I started crying, apologising and explaining that really, today had been so very challenging, and I was trying my best.
“Yeah, well, try harder, “ she answered.
She didn't need to say more. She might as well have pointed a finger straight into my chest, revealing my feelings of failure as a mother. An instant crack in my confidence.
A blow in my hope that another woman, surely, wouldn’t ever judge me, let alone shame me, for not being able to keep my son silent at home on a Saturday afternoon.
“We hear him run all day, and my husband works at night. We’re trying to have a peaceful life here,” she said with a breath that reeked of beer.
I thought of telling her that we have just moved here and that’s a big change for a little child. That I take my son outside several times a day to let him be wild and get it out of his system. That parenting and educating isn’t something you fix in a day or in a week.
That maybe there’s nothing to fix at all — except her attitude towards children.
I thought of telling her about The Whole-Brained Child and other research-based books that show what a key role movement, running, and jumping play in brain development and emotional regulation.
I thought of asking her whether she had any kids. Or about her own childhood. How free she had been. How she would have felt if the neighbours had complained about her laughter.
I wanted to ask her how small her life was at the moment that she couldn’t even bear a little bit of noise on a Saturday afternoon? That instead of popping in some earplugs like I do every time she and her husband decide to play loud music at night, they felt it would be better to bring that smallness to their new neighbours’, as the perfect welcome gift.
I didn’t say any of that. It was obviously pointless.
If she had wanted to understand, she would have understood before opening her front door.
But I’m here darling, saying it all to you and to me at the same time.
If you’re a parent:
You’re not failing because your kids are running, jumping and laughing. Quite the opposite.
Expecting them to behave like in a movie in the 1950s is not only unrealistic, it’s harmful. Both to their nervous system and to yours.
Your job is not to avoid the judgments of anyone, whether they’re staring at the supermarket or ringing at your door. Your job is to be a safe container for your kid. Being present for them, giving them love and support even on the difficult days is the most amazing thing you can do. You rock!
Some kids are more intense than others. My son certainly is more intense than my daughter has ever been. It’s not a problem, it’s just harder. There are tools to help, yes, but most importantly these children are allowed to be themselves. They are allowed to take up space and to feel that this world belongs to them just as much as it belongs to the grumpy middle-aged men downstairs who work at night and drink during the day.
You’re not responsible for other people’s discomfort with your child’s development.
If you’re not a parent and you’re being annoyed by a noisy kid:
Be nicer.
Try to live one hour in his or his parents’ shoes. Hard? They’re doing it every single day to raise the next future generation of free-thinking, creative, brave, ingenious and whole-hearted humans.
Even if you don’t like it, you were a kid once, and I bet you annoyed other people too. That’s just the cycle of life. And I know you’re going to say ‘but I was well-behaved!” to which I want to ask, “But at what price? How many therapy sessions have you needed, so far?”
If you really really want to say something, go give a hug to that mom and tell her how you see her efforts, and that she’s doing great.
Because the truth is : parenting is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than building my own business. Harder than any challenge I’ve faced.
It pushes you beyond your limits, beyond what you ever thought you were capable of. It leaves you powerless, worried, unsure and sometimes deeply convinced you’re doing it all wrong.
Add to that the pressure of raising better humans than we’ve been, to break generational patterns, to give our children what we didn’t have, and to do it all while healing ourselves and without simply popping a pill into their little system so they’ll behave more conveniently.
We are trying.
Every single day.
Trying to raise humans who won’t spend years unlearning and de-conditionning from us later so they can finally be themselves.
It’s hard work.
And in that hard work, judgment is the last thing we need.