Simplicity Parenting (38 page)

It took a while to get started. It felt strange at first: awkward and sometimes pointless. But Michelle’s simple goal was to commit to time each day with Carla, and for them to make something together. They began with clay. Paints. One day they started a “get more mail” campaign, with each working on postcards to friends and relatives. They got a beeswax candle for the table and experimented with relaxing background music. Michelle sometimes brought something—a picture, poem, or joke—to share before they started. Carla opened up, talking about school and friends. Before too long they hit their stride, with a project that seemed to flow directly from their hearts and needs at the time. Michelle hauled out the boxes of photos from the office closet, and together they made three beautiful family albums, with one exclusively of Carla’s baby years. It took weeks, and it brought back so many memories, so many funny stories and forgotten moments. (Even of stories from her birth, Carla would claim in the retelling, “Oh yeah! I think I really do remember that too, Mama!”)

The building that happened at that table—which turned out to be relationship building—was perhaps the hardest work of the process for Michelle. I have to think Carla knew that on some level. Seeing her mother sitting quietly opposite her, and not as a body in motion on her way to another room, sharpened Carla’s attention from the very beginning. Something was up. It may have taken a while for that something to feel natural, but believe me, it did. It began to feel natural
and
essential. Michelle and Carla slid into each other’s company, discovering with surprise and delight that they could build something lasting. Not just for the photo album, but an ease with each other. A trust that would carry them forward.

At first Clark had been relieved when Michelle took on this part of the process. It was something that he was happy not to be involved in. But as he saw what was happening—how Carla and her mom looked forward to this time—he felt increasingly outside a circle he wanted to join. He had been putting Carla on the bus each day, but since his and Carla’s schedules coincided in the morning, he decided to drive her instead. This seemed like a windfall to Carla. “Guess what?” Carla asked her mom. “Dad is really funny in the morning!” I suggested Clark assume responsibility for piano practice, too, because I knew he played. “But Carla hates practicing the piano! I hated practicing, too.” There it was. A perfect opportunity for them to find their way in, and out, of the piano-playing knot together. And they did. They allowed repetition, quiet insistence, and some necessary silliness to carry them through the beginning until practicing became a pattern and playing piano became something Carla could do and be proud of. Until they had something, together.

Before long, Michelle and Clark were on their own path. Carla’s little brother, Alex, arrived six months after our work began. Was Carla excited? That isn’t what would strike you first about her. I think you, as her parents and teachers did, would notice how much calmer she was. She had really settled down in her behavior. She was doing well at school, had a number of interests, and she was happier than she had been since we met.

I remember her steely gaze that first day, and I would imagine there was a bit of suspicion in her eyes when she first met Alex, too. But for different reasons. She was no longer in control of the house, but her family had a new closeness she would have to learn to share with him.

Simplification is a process; a pebble dropped in the waters of a family’s daily life. It inspires changes that expand throughout the home, touching each member of the family and their relationships. Let’s look at some of those ripples of change, and how a family finds its own depth, its new equilibrium. In two decades of helping families with this work, I’ve been fortunate to gain a wide and long perspective. I’ve kept in touch with, and heard back from families with kids of all ages, on three different continents. Often I’ve seen that the work we did together was just the beginning, a small part of the overall transformation they went on to achieve.

It takes time to reduce, to say “no thanks” and mean it, to the distractions and excesses that have overwhelmed our daily lives. And changing a family’s direction isn’t easy, especially when life feels like a cyclone. Yet perhaps the strongest force on earth can be harnessed for this work: a parent’s love for their children. The process of simplification—a shifting of a family’s core axis—is usually driven by a parent’s simple desire to protect the ease and wonder of their child’s early years. I’ve seen the wisdom of starting small, of beginning with the possible, relishing the results, and allowing success to then fuel the process. I’ve found that what works best is to simplify the child’s life first: to declutter their overloaded rooms, diets, and schedules, and to increase the rhythm and regularity of the home.

There is a period of adjustment to a more rhythmic, less frenzied lifestyle, which will be longer the older your kids are. Children under four or five probably won’t even register the changes consciously, though you’ll notice a difference—a lightening and ease—in their play, moods, and sleep. Teenagers will resist the changes—without a doubt—out of sheer developmental necessity, if nothing else. Your quiet unwillingness to back down will help ease this transition toward a new and usually appreciated family norm.

As distractions fall away, a sense of ease takes hold and expands. There’s more time for connection, room for contemplation and play. Boredom, once feared and banished from the home, will be allowed in again, appreciated for how often it precedes inspiration. Contrary to what you might think, regularity is more liberating than “boring” to most children. Rituals that can be counted on throughout the day and week act as powerful affirmations. For teenagers rhythms provide a steady, reassuring counterweight to the volatility and strong emotions that define the territory of adolescence. Rituals loosen a younger child’s grip, relaxing their need to control small and seemingly random aspects of their day. Remember Carla’s place mat, without which there could be no eating? As the family’s dinners became more regular, and as Carla assumed the mantle of table setting, she was swept up in something bigger than her need for control. She quietly dispensed with the place mat, leaving it shoved in the back of a drawer. Wonder Woman’s power had been eclipsed.

Such islands of consistency assure a child that all is right with the world, freeing them to relax into their play and their imaginations. Time, which can seem like an unpredictable tyrant, pulling and pushing a child through the day, is tamed and tied down with family dinners, reading before bed, with chores and unscheduled play, and the “compass kisses” (north, south, east, and west) bestowed before they head out the door. Only with regularity can the joy of the unexpected and the luxury of the unplanned find a place in the home, too.

Parents are often surprised by the power of less as it relates to everyday choices. We live in a country and era that equate “choice” with “freedom.” Yet for young children, “freedom of choice” about every small detail in their day—everything they eat, wear, or do—can be a paralyzing burden. You’ve seen this at work; I recently did at the community pool. A dad with a suitcase on wheels attached to the back of his stroller found a few free lounge chairs. “Here, boys? Or do you wanna sit here? Sun or shade?” Settling in with his twins (who looked to be about four years old), he started to unpack, keeping up a steady stream of questions. “Nathan, Liam, do you boys want to swim now, or eat a snack? Swim? Okay, Nathan, now look at this … What do you want to swim with? The rubber shark, the missiles, or the mask? Snack, Liam? Crackers, grapes, or cheese? Liam, buddy, do you want your crackers on a napkin, or do you want a little bag you can walk around with? Nathan, you can swim while Liam eats, or wait, Liam, will you swim with Nathan and have a snack after? Your mom packed some juice but they have tea here, too. How long do you boys want to stay? Should we swim for an hour, maybe, and go home for your nap?” My unspoken question was whether these little guys would ever manage to get wet. This is a fairly extreme example, I’ll grant you. But in general, we offer our children more choices than they need, or want.

As choices are reduced, pressure is lifted. A child has the time and freedom to have their own thoughts. They can find the ease to slowly forge an identity, an identity that is more than the sum of their choices, preferences, or purchases. More than a “brand identity.”

Imagine your own version of “choice overload.” Perhaps you are trying to find a health plan, or shopping for a car; maybe you’ve stopped to rent a movie on the way home from errands. The options are dizzying. Scan up and down the aisles, and suddenly a nice idea seems like an overwhelming task. At that moment—glancing back at the exit, considering an escape—success doesn’t seem too likely, either. What if, ironically, the movie that would really hit the spot isn’t at the Super-Mega Movie Store? Just the sight of so many movies raises your expectations. What’s the point of watching a movie if it isn’t one of the best? And with so many to choose from, how would you find it? How could you possibly know that you’ve made the right choice? And at this rate, what if you’re still in the middle of the store, glued to this spot, at closing time?

Movie stores may not plunge you into a black hole of Woody Allen–esque indecision. But I trust you can relate in some fashion to my description, since “choice overload” is increasingly a part of our daily lives. Several things happen when you have too much stuff and too many options: Decisions are more difficult, and expectations rise. If I have all of this, what
else
might I have? Or, more commonly, “What’s next?” Unwittingly we are passing on this surfeit of choices—and its consequences—to our children. What’s next?

Let’s back up a moment. In simplifying we are trying to move away from excess and toward balance. Sadly, many children need more—not less—to lead healthy and comfortable lives. There is nothing uplifting or expansive about hunger. “The power of less” is meaningless for those in real need, for a child whose refrigerator is empty. No, simplification is for those of us whose lives are characterized less by need than by want. It’s not just the affluent: Very often children who are overwhelmed by material possessions and choices come from decidedly middle-class homes. And sometimes parents of relatively modest means still try to shower their kids with largesse and a sense of limitless options. But a refrigerator that is always crammed with everything imaginable is, ironically, not satisfying. It usually sets you dreaming about the one or two things that may not be in there.

Only with less can a child learn what it is that they do like, and what speaks to them. When their expectations are always met—even anticipated—their will is left flaccid and weak. I know that crammed refrigerator may sound lovely; it is a rare image for most of us (“Whose turn was it to go to market anyways?”). But when a child grows up with a metaphorical refrigerator that is always overflowing, the results, in terms of their happiness
and
their behavior, are rarely lovely.

What happens then, as we continue to deliver “everything their hearts desire”? For one thing, like well-exercised muscles, their little hearts keep desiring. But also, as all of this largesse pours in the front door, anticipation quietly slips out the back. It is one of the first victims of overload. There’s no room for anticipation when expectations are always met. The possibility of happy surprises? That will tiptoe out the back, too. Sometimes parents only notice it’s gone when their six-year-old greets each new thing with a kind of world-weary ennui.

When it isn’t governed by the drumbeat of “More!” your home will be a calmer place. It will be a testament to “Enough.” But surely “enough” is disappointing, and just plain boring compared to the abundance of “More”? The question is fair, and it’s the most common reaction parents have as they ponder a mountain of toys they need to reduce to a molehill of beloved keepers. Won’t the kids be devastated? Generally, no. With fewer choices, there is freedom to appreciate things—and one another—more deeply.

I sometimes think of simplification as a powerful anti-inflammatory for families. Inflammation is our body’s “red alert,” its way of responding to harmful stimuli or irritants. It can be acute, or low level and chronic, an imbalance that begins to seem “normal.” So often I’ve seen how simplification can break the cycle of inflammation—the itch for “More,” and craving for greater and greater stimulation—that threatens to overwhelm a family’s “system.”

A mother emailed me about her eleven-year-old boy: “Between his iPod, computer and Game Boy, there isn’t a moment of the day now when Todd isn’t ‘plugged in’ now. I’ve begun leaving him little notes because he always has some sort of earplugs in. Maybe it’s just the way things are? I see the same thing all over, with all sorts of kids. But I just can’t stop wondering if my days of talking to Todd are pretty much over.”

What an excellent example of inflammation. This mom was recounting a change that had happened gradually. Looking around, she saw plenty of examples of “plugged-in kids,” almost enough to convince her that what she was experiencing was “normal.” Yet it didn’t feel right. It pained her to be leaving notes for a son she no longer talked to, and who no longer talked to her. What she felt was an imbalance. An imbalance that could worsen if left unattended, its effects spreading systemically, throughout the family. Part of the process of simplification for Todd’s family was to increase time spent together, to make Todd’s access to media and electronics privilege-based rather than limitless, and to dramatically unplug as a family.

The process of simplification removes some of the major stressors of daily life, reducing swollen expectations and sensory irritants. It closes down the “red alert” or triage approach to daily life, so parents can restore a more natural balance, one where the “everyday” has a place, and time expands. Where distractions don’t overwhelm connection, and the rituals we share are small promises made and kept, every day.