This weekend, I had an epiphany: I am far too critical of my 6-year-old. I expect way too much of him. Even though he is far more capable than his little brother, my six-year-old is still a child, not a miniature adult. I don't want him to feel inadequate, so I need to work on my tone, be more intentional with my word choices, and model self-compassion.

The cherry on top

Friday afternoon, I surprised my boys with a trip to the ice cream shop. My eldest recently discovered milkshakes, and he got a double chocolate shake with whipped cream and a cherry on top. I had delivered magic! As we left, I heard that little voice in the back of my head warn me to not allow the shake in my brand new minivan. But my kiddo was loving every sip, so I shooed away that voice.

At a traffic stop, I turned around and discovered my son tilting the cup every which way while playing with the dripping straw. "Put that straw back in that cup," I snapped. "Just look at you. Chocolate is dripping all down your arm! What are you thinking? You are never allowed to have a milkshake in the car again. Give me that now." In less than 30 seconds, I had destroyed the magic.

He wasn't trying to ruin my new car; he just wanted the cherry.

I glanced at that cup the rest of the drive home. At the bottom, the cherry rolled around. The mom guilt hit me hard. He wasn't trying to ruin my new car; he just wanted the cherry. Heck, I would have tilted that cup every which way to get the cherry too. I just have more experience and dexterity to avoid spills. And who let him bring the shake in the car? I did. And did I set clear rules and expectations beforehand? No, I didn't.

When we got home, I apologized and tenderly wiped the chocolate off his face and arms. I gave him a hug, but I had tainted the memory.

Bedtime distress

At my eldest's insistence, our boys share a room. Friday night, my sweet boy lay in bed, hitting his pillow and repeating one sentence: "I'm just a useless kid." While my husband tried whispering encouraging words to loll our son to sleep, I rolled my eyes, annoyed he had found yet another way to delay bedtime. He'd already demanded a drink of water and followed by a second trip to the bathroom.

But then I recalled the last thing I had hissed at him, only two minutes earlier, when he banged the bedroom door shut and nearly woke his little brother: "Seriously? You need to be quieter!”

I had forgotten that it’s okay for a six-year-old to act like a six-year-old.

"The handle slipped out of my hand," he cried. But I had turned away from him.

That poor kid. I had forgotten that it’s okay for a six-year-old to act like a six-year-old. It's okay he has not yet perfected the gross motor skills necessary to shut a door silently. It's okay he doesn't yet have his impulse control, which would have helped him to wait for a spoon.

Modeling compassion

That same night, I listened to Sarah Rosensweet's most recent podcast, "Episode #6: Coaching Call with Sangam: When You Worry You’ve Ruined Your Child and Dread the Days." First, I felt less alone hearing that someone else shared one of my greatest fears: that I've forever ruined my relationship with my child. Sarah provided the right antidote at the right time: reassurance that I haven't, that I can always keep working to repair and strengthen my relationship with my son. And I will. Always.

Second, Sarah reminded me that I need to be gentle with myself, that I need to show myself more compassion. Mom guilt is real, but shaming and blaming myself isn't going to help me do better, just like how shaming and blaming my kids doesn't help them do better.

Shaming and blaming myself isn't going to help me do better, just like how shaming and blaming my kids doesn't help them do better.

Thus, the more I model compassion for myself, the easier and more naturally I'll do the same for my children and they'll do for themselves. So Friday night, after I lay in bed torturing myself with an image of my son sleeping restlessly with feelings of inadequacy, I placed my hand over my heart and I told myself, "Even though I make mistakes, I am still lovable."

I didn't entirely believe that, so I forced myself to say it again, this time out loud. I thought my husband was asleep; he wasn't. In the dark, he replied, "Of course you are." He leaned over and kissed me.

I sighed with relief and erased that torturesome image I had conjured of my son.

Respect is a two-way street

When my first born was still a toddler, my husband and I modeled respectful language at every turn, not only to each other but also to our child. Three years later, my increased anxiety and our decreased energy, patience, and tolerance devolved that organic respectful language.

My husband and I talked about this at length Friday night, and we're committed to being more intentional with our tone and word choices. This weekend, every time I needed my son to do something, every time I needed to help him correct his choices or behaviors, I thought about how I would speak to my spouse or coworker and how I would like them to speak to me.

We're committed to being more intentional with our tone and word choices.

I also stumbled upon this helpful article, "How to Stop Being an Angry Mom Now…Using 5 Hair Ties," which recommends wearing the hair ties around your wrist. "If you catch yourself snapping at your kiddo, move one hair tie to the other wrist. But your goal is actually to make it to the end of the day with all 5 hair ties on the original wrist."

I've tried to break bad habits before using visual cues, but they stopped working after a week or two. However, this article helped me to understand why: "Once you get used to seeing the cue in your environment, the cue is no longer effective." Thus, this method specifies that you wear the hair ties only when around your children. Whenever you're apart, you have to take them off.

My hair ties will arrive Monday; I'll keep you posted about how this works for me. (Update: See how I did during week one and what the results were for me and my children.)

Happy kids, happy weekend

Over the last two days, I implemented these renewed efforts. As a result, my son was noticeably happier this weekend. I was too.

Don't get me wrong; consciously choosing to use a respectful tone when setting firm limits is incredibly hard work. My brain is hardwired to react to what my mind perceives to be emergencies. Let's face it—backtalk, name calling, bouncing off the sofa, and throwing and snatching toys aren't emergencies. They're certainly not permissible, not in my home, but they don't warrant making my kid feel like he's a failure.

Consciously choosing to use a respectful tone when setting firm limits is incredibly hard work.

The calmer I stayed, the more matter-of-fact I sounded, the more I showed him empathy and compassion—the quicker my son made better choices. My husband and I made sure we commended him for those efforts, and as a result he beamed with pride. I smiled with pure joy too, knowing that my son feels good about himself again.

Featured photo by Erin P.T. Canning; My sweet boy, 2019