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As a Teacher, you need to be careful what you call the Child

+5 votes
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Words once spoken are not the easiest things to retrieve. Teachers can get frustrated with how some children behave but there is need to be tactful and lead the child ahead. Watch this video to learn what happened with one of the world's greatest individuals as a child. 

posted Nov 28, 2016 by Sridhar Pai

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+3 votes

Nothing wrong with very. But why 'very' something when you can say it more precisely with a better word? Here is something that you can use and still skip VERY. Go ahead and try these out. And guess what? Your kids will probably teach you a lesson or two here too! Enjoy!

+1 vote

               

Photo Source: scarymommy

By- Clint Edwards

http://www.scarymommy.com/stop-pushing-kids-be-best/

There’s an article from Boston magazine making the internet rounds right now titled “In Praise of Mediocre Kids.” In it, Julie Suratt describes how her son Finn was interested in playing the French horn, so they got him the instrument and signed him up for the school music program, only to find out that he wasn’t that good.

The school music director suggested they pay for a private tutor. Like any good parents, the Suratts looked into it. The music program already cost $150, and to rent the French horn was another $42 a month. Add the cost of private lessons on top of that, and once everything was tallied, Suratt was left wondering why they originally got into this whole “playing an instrument” thing. It wasn’t for Finn to play in the London symphony (do they have French horns in the London symphony?). It was so he could try out an instrument and see if he enjoyed the experience.

But her initial reaction to do everything she could to make sure her son was the best at the French horn, even if it cost a great deal of money, is relatable to me, and I assume it is to anyone with children.

A few years ago my daughter, who was 5 at the time, wanted to try ballet. We got her the leotard and the lessons and the cute shoes. I drove her to every practice and every recital, and as I did, I imagined her as a professional dancer. This graceful ballerina, prancing along the stage, wowing fans. The strange thing is, though, I don’t even like ballet. I’ve seen The Nutcracker a couple times, and I was never enthralled. And yet, the moment my daughter showed interest in something, I wanted her to be the best at it.

My notions of her devoting her life to ballet got quashed pretty quickly however. After about six months, it was everything I could do to get her to put on the tights. She hated it, so I ended up forcing her to do something that she didn’t like, with the hope that she would make me proud someday by becoming a prima ballerina — again, an art form I don’t even appreciate.

Like Suratt, I eventually took a step back and had to examine why I got her into this whole dancing gig in the first place, and the reasoning was to see if she’d enjoy it. Not for her to become some accomplished ballerina. Like really, what are the odds? 

Often as parents, we get lost in competition. We expect our children to be the best at everything, all while forgetting that turning them into upstanding adults with passions and good values is actually a pretty lofty goal all by itself.

But for some reason, parents in 2017 are fearful of mediocrity. Now, keep in mind, this is often a middle- to upper-class problem. You have to have enough money to pay for those extracurricular activities, along with the extra gear and lessons, plus the time to schlep your kid from place to place. I grew up with a single mother. We didn’t have money for that kind of thing, and she certainly didn’t have the time or resources to be shuttling me all over town each day.

We make enough money for my son to play soccer and for my daughter to attend gymnastics lessons (her new adventure). We don’t make enough money to devote our lives to the cause, but we wouldn’t want to anyway. Our kids are enjoying themselves and learning new skills, and we are happy with that.

I happen to work in a Division 1 athletics program. My job is to help make sure college athletes do their homework (I’m pretty popular, trust me). I will be the first to admit, I’ve seen student athletes who are so driven to excel at everything they do that I have to take a step back to truly appreciate how amazing they are. But on the flip side, I’ve also seen the downside of pushing a child to be the best their whole life: When they do fail, and they will because everyone does, it crushes them. This can be tragic.

In the past two years, two student athletes I worked with have died by suicide — one after he lost eligibility, the other when she was cut from the team. Those two students were bright and capable, and yet they had built up their sport to be so important, so valuable, that when it was taken away from them, they felt like they had nothing left to live for. But the fact is, they both had a hell of a lot of life left to live. They were smart and motivated. They could have had promising careers and families. They were good people, and their whole lives still lay ahead of them.

But they couldn’t see that.

Now, this isn’t going to be the case for all children who have been pushed to excel their entire lives, but we shouldn’t ignore the impact this has on our children’s mental and emotional well-being either.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with having a mediocre child. There is nothing wrong with being a B or even a C student. It’s not that you shouldn’t encourage children to do their best and challenge themselves. But pushing them to be the absolute best and demanding they excel at everything from soccer to the French horn to their class ranking might not be the best way for them to truly enjoy their childhood. That’s a lot of freaking pressure. And from my observations, it can, in fact, have tragic consequences.

Ultimately, that’s what Suratt concludes in her article: “It’s not easy to ignore societal pressure to push, push, push […]. Our parents didn’t sign us up for all the extras […]. They were more concerned with whether we ate our vegetables than how many goals we scored […]. We don’t owe our success to private coaching and tutoring; we owe it to our intrinsic desire to be our best self. That’s what we need to focus on with our children: building their self-esteem; creating a safe environment where it’s okay to fail and okay to try again; and encouraging them to be nice, honest, and loyal. And, perhaps most important of all, embracing mediocrity.”

We need to teach our children that failure is a part of life and that we still love them even if they are not the best at this or that, because on the whole, they are the best children we have. Everyone has their talents and their struggles, and that’s part of life. While my daughter will never become a famous ballerina, that’s okay. As long as she becomes a kind, self-sufficient, caring person, I will be incredibly proud of her.

And I have to assume all of you loving parents reading this article feel the same. So let’s make sure our kids know that. Let’s take the pressure off them a little. Let’s not worry about pushing our children to be the best, and instead, like Surratt, embrace mediocrity.

 

+1 vote

                                        

Photo Source: Pick Any Two

By- Katie M. McLaughlin

http://pickanytwo.net/the-train-analogy-that-will-change-how-you-see-your-crying-child/

My 4-year-old was climbing into bed, his face turned away from me and toward the wall, when he asked the question.

“Where’s Glenn?”

His tone made the question sound like an afterthought, but I know better. Glenn is the opposite of an afterthought; he’s the tiger lovey blanket my son has been carting around with him since he was old enough to maintain a tight grasp. 

    The Train Analogy That Will Completely Change the Way You See Your Crying Child

My husband offered to head back downstairs to search, and I absently commented that I actually hadn’t seen Glenn around that evening, which was unusual.

At that, my son slowly turned around to face me but without making eye contact, his mind racing. His eyes were fixed on some background point as his mouth twisted and turned with each darting thought. They met mine only as he realized it, his shoulders straightening and his back growing taller as the panic scaled him. 

Finally, the shout: “I left Glenn in the back of Gigi’s car!!!”


Gigi, of course, was one state away by this point, which means we were facing my son’s first night since he was an infant—the first night ever in his little memory—without Glenn curled up in the crook of his arm.

Oh, sure, we’d lost Glenn before, but he’d always been found before bedtime, even if sometimes it required what felt like hours of searching. And then there was the time my son held him out the car window and accidentally let go, so Glenn spent a bit of time playing chicken on the yellow lines of a busy street. 

But still, there had never been a bedtime without Glenn.

The initial shock was, of course, followed by electric currents of anger that coursed through my son’s little body. He punched the air and gritted his teeth and screamed, “I WILL NOT SLEEP WITHOUT GLENN! I WILL NOT GO TO BED UNTIL HE’S HERE! I WILL NOT GO TO BED EVER AGAIN!” More punching, more gritting, a few angry flops onto the floor. 

At this point my husband had returned from his futile search, and was looking at me for direction. How are we handling this one, mama? 

I don’t know if the look I shot back reflected confidence, wisdom, and clarity, but believe it or not, that’s what I felt.

Because right when I needed it most, I remembered the train analogy.

The Life-Changing Train Analogy 

The analogy was nothing new, something I’d learned in my own therapy years before I had kids and something we’ve all heard in the form of an overused cliche. Truthfully, I’d always struggled to apply it to my own rush of emotions, but here, with my poor child flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water, it seemed like the only reasonable response.

The analogy goes like this:

Difficult feelings are tunnels, and we are trains traveling through them. 

We have to move all the way through the darkness to get to the—you knew this was coming!—calm, peaceful light at the end of the tunnel.

It sounds simple, but it’s way easier said than done.

Where Well-Meaning Parents Go Wrong

The problem is that we well-meaning parents and caregivers often attempt to intercept our children on their journey through an emotional tunnel.

For example, watching my son wrestle with his anger and sadness and fear at not having his lovey, I could easily have said:

It’s only one night. We’ll get him back tomorrow.

We have so many other stuffed animals, just sleep with one of them tonight.

You’ll be fine, I promise.

Those would all have been true statements, not doubt, but they would not have been helpful ones.

So often when our kids are struggling with a difficult feeling—sadness, anger, fear, embarrassment, loneliness, guilt—we try to logic them out of it. We explain why they’re overreacting, or how WE know it will turn out just fine in the end.

We’re trying to help our children, of course, but if we peel back the layers a bit, I think we’ll find that what we’re really doing is trying to make OURSELVES feel better. Because our children’s pain hurts US so deeply, makes US so acutely uncomfortable. 

We’re the ones who want their crying to stop as quickly as possible—not them. 

Back to the analogy: If emotions are tunnels and we are trains going through them, then we NEED to keep moving all the way through to the other side. 

What we adults often do when facing our own emotional struggles is attempt to get out of the tunnel early—banging on the sides, ignoring the cavernous echo, and wondering with confusion why we can’t see daylight yet.

Sometimes we squat in the darkness, close our eyes, and just pretend we’re not in a tunnel at all. Everything is just fine, thank you very much.

Sometimes we do a whole host of other things—eat ice cream, drink wine, shop online, run marathons, binge watch Netflix, play games on our phones or scroll mindlessly through Facebook—to distract ourselves from the fact that we’re in a tunnel in the first place.

But none of those things gets us out of the tunnel, does it? 

Then, when we FINALLY let ourselves scream and wail and bang our fists and crumble onto the floor and have a good cry, we suddenly feel so. much. better. 

Same goes for our kids. We can’t teach them there’s some secret side exit when there’s really not. There is no way out except through, and it’s our job to guide them there. 

That’s why I didn’t say a word to my son. Instead, I just sat next to him as the ripples of anger melted into shaking and sobbing. When I thought it was OK to do so, I started rubbing his back—still without speaking. He kept crying and crying and crying. 

As those tears flowed, I realized I had just done what Gordon Neufeld and Gabor Mate call “dancing our children to their tears.” In their book Hold On to Your Kids they write:

“…a parent must dance the child to his tears, to letting go, and to the sense of rest that comes in the wake of letting go…[a parent must] come alongside the child’s experience of frustration and provide comfort. The agenda should not be to teach a lesson but to move frustration to sadness…Much more important than our words is the child’s sense that we are with her, not against her.” 

With that in mind, I was actually delighted that my son was shaking with sobs because I knew that meant he was traveling through this emotional tunnel rather than getting stuck in it.

He cried and he cried and he cried.

Until he wasn’t crying anymore. 

Until, from his vantage point splayed out on the floor, he caught a glimpse of a nearby book about world-recording-holding dogs, pulled it over, and started paging through it. As if nothing had happened at all. 

I peeked at the clock. It had been eight minutes. 

Building Resilience

I decided speaking would be OK now, so I asked my son if he wanted to make a plan. I told him I knew that bedtime tonight would be extra tough, but maybe we could think of some ideas together to help him through it. 

(Had I suggested such a thing two minutes prior, he would have EXPLODED. But because I waited until his train was through this tunnel, it was fine.) 

Without any additional prompting from me, my 4-year-old chose two different stuffed animals to sleep with that night, then asked if we could read two extra books before bed to help make the evening more special. 

Later, as I kissed him goodnight and he turned onto his side to fall asleep, he said peacefully, “I’m going to be OK tonight.” 

Yes, dear son, you are.

Because this is where resilience is built.

Had I driven an hour each way to retrieve Glenn, we wouldn’t have built resilience. 

Had I told him over and over again it was no big deal, it’s just one night without one stuffed animal, we wouldn’t have built resilience either. The message there would have been that his pain was invalid and that his struggles weren’t worth being taken seriously.

But simply sitting by his side as bumped his way through the tunnel? Allowing him to feel the rush and the panic, and then come up for air all on his own? THAT is building resilience.

Remember Your Job

So the next time your child is deeply frustrated, angry, or upset, remember what the job of a parent really is.

The job of a parent is to:

  • Provide comfort through the frustration.
  • Draw out our child’s cleansing tears.
  • Show empathy to our child’s struggle.
  • Allow the life lesson to be learned naturally—not through preaching.
  • Support our child’s journey through the emotional tunnel.

The job of a parent is NOT to get our child to stop crying as quickly as possible. Tears are a sign of parental success, not failure.

So rub your child’s back. Sit with them in silence. Stay alongside them as they chug chug chug through their tunnels of feelings. And be with them when they finally reach the calm, peaceful light at the end.

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