Why I’ve Stopped Listening To My Kids
By Joe Barker
As a weak-willed people-pleaser I hate to say no, but I'm slowly realizing that cravenly giving in to my children's every whim is not working out for us. I don't mean in the sense that they're growing up spoilt with no sense of boundaries. Although this is undoubtedly the case, they're still young enough for that to be a future problem rather than an immediate concern. No, when I say it isn’t working out, what I mean is, my children are terrible judges of what they want and will invariably scream, “Noooo!” when offered their heart's desire. This has become so self-evident that even I've spotted it, and am striving to reverse a lifetime of gently flowing along the path of least resistance. Now when I give my children options or ask them a question, I don't listen to their answers. Instead, I just do what I think is best, and try to ignore their outraged cries, safe in the knowledge that whatever I do they will shout at me anyway.
A few typical interactions with Marty will show you just how little he understands what he actually wants or enjoys. “I hate school!” Not a great start to the morning, but where once I would have offered a hug and a long, sympathetic, but ultimately futile, conversation about how we sometimes have to do things we don't like, now I just say, “I'm sorry to hear that. What would you like for breakfast?” Marty immediately forgets his hatred of school to focus on how he's not hungry and wants to play instead. So I pop a plate of toast on the table and watch him wander over and absent-mindedly start eating. We put his school uniform on and talk of this and that while he occasionally mentions that he doesn't want to go to school. I continue to ignore these conversational gambits and he soon moves on to other topics.
Obviously he doesn't want to ride his bike, although I miss hearing him claim that he definitely doesn't want to ride it to school, as he is already speeding, giggling down the soi while I race to catch up. His nonstop chatter is interrupted only briefly by my yells to watch where he is going and his intermittent complaints about attending an educational establishment. Arriving at school he attempts a final convincing declaration of his dislike of learning, but his argument is fatally undermined when he forgets to look sad and starts grinning and waving at his teachers and friends.
Leaving him to what he assures me will be a day of misery and torment and with instructions to fetch him as soon as possible ringing in my ears, I head home confident that when I return, he'll complain that I'm too early and beg to be allowed to stay and play longer—a request that I will be happy to grant since this is a rare example of my child actually knowing what he wants.
Once he finally lets us leave school, we get home and I ignore the exhausted child when he explains that he can't possibly do anything other than watch TV, and that he definitely isn't hungry. Rather than argue, I potter about the kitchen and put some snacks on the table. By the time he's finished three slices of toast and most of a watermelon, he's full of energy and we can turn off the TV and focus our attention on the important business of catching up on the day's play.
Naturally it’s not just on school days that I have to ignore Marty. Every time I suggest leaving the house he’ll insist he’s happy at home and doesn’t want to go, but, as you'll know, staying inside with small children is never the right answer, since, like all wild animals, they need space to run around. So over vociferous objections we head out and are soon having a wonderful time. Similarly when I suggest going to a restaurant he’ll swear that he’s not hungry and certainly doesn't want to go to any restaurants. A position he loudly maintains right up to the moment that he wolfs down all his dinner and most of mine.
Of course, strenuously though he holds his contrarian views, Marty cannot compete with the illogical certainty with which his toddler sister insists that she doesn't want the thing that she really, really wants. Her tantrums are a wild and terrifying rollercoaster of emotions for all involved.
Woken from a nap Alice briefly seems at peace with the world, but then something displeases her. Perhaps I didn't pick her up quickly enough, or perhaps I, or one of her teddies, looked at her funny. Whatever the cause, she is suddenly screaming. I try to pick her up, but she hurls herself to the mattress, little feet drumming in rage at my affrontery. Assuming she wants to stay lying down, I ease back. Immediately she’s standing, angry fists banging on the cot, demanding to be released. I reach for her, and she dives screeching into her pillow. This cycle continues, ever louder, until eventually I haul her screaming from her room.
Her howls rattle the house as I worry what the neighbors must think and desperately seek something to placate her. A squirrel on a telephone pole brings a delighted chuckle and I breathe a sigh of relief, but it's too soon! The squirrel was just a distraction, it has not quenched the rage, the howls return. Even her brother only gains us a brief smile and a moment of quiet. Then she sees a picture of a dog, and the anger vanishes as her cheery giggles swiftly release the tension that's been building since she woke.
This process is repeated in traumatic reverse when she gets tired. Screaming in rage, she is lowered into her cot, absolutely insistent that sleep is the last thing she needs. She attempts to climb out, she throws her teddies at me, then wails for their return, shouts for mommy, and generally acts as though her imprisonment in a cot is a terrible miscarriage of justice, and sleep, a fate worse than death. In short it is neither a restful nor quiet experience, but if, with gentle cajolery, amateur teddy puppetry, and a lot of luck, I can get her to lie down, the screams instantly turn to gentle coos of sleepy delight at the joy of being in bed. The much needed sleep follows swiftly.
Hunger can trigger similar harrowing exchanges. Normally she loves nothing as much as a plateful of food, but if she thinks she is being deprived of tasty treats, her gastronomic pleasure swiftly turns ugly. She will dash the proffered plate from our hands, affronted by the paucity of our portions. Then, realizing that no one is offering her food, she'll scream in outrage and from there things swiftly spiral as her anger at not being given food is surpassed only by her distress upon seeing food. This incandescent fury only ends when she accidentally puts some food in her mouth. Instantly transfixed by this ambrosial nectar, she forgets her rage to focus on finding more. “Why”, she seems to say, "have you been keeping this from me, didn't you know I was hungry?”
I could go on, but my children can hear the ice cream man coming, and I do hate saying no.
About the Author
Joe and his wife Diane moved to Thailand in 2018. Since the arrival of their son Martin in 2021 and daughter Alice in 2024, Joe has been a stay-at-home father. The whole family enjoys BAMBI playgroups and Thai beach holidays. Find Joe on SubStack: BangkokDad bangkokdad.substack.com/