Steven Covey likely needs very little introduction to many of our readers. His book 7 Habits of Highly Effective People is one of the most popular and influential business and self-help books ever written.
One of the big takeaways for me was the edict that “with people, slow is fast and fast is slow.” Before reading this a decade ago, I had fallen into the bad habit of only skimming through the daily interactions in my life, instead spending the majority of my mental processing cycles crafting and refining what I was going to say next.
Since incorporating this practice into my daily life a decade ago, I always find that when I slow down to truly listen and take time to think carefully before responding, every interaction in my world becomes richer, more productive and (paradoxically), more efficient. It’s my go-to conversational tactic in my career, in my interpersonal relationships and in my daily interactions with my community.
But with my kids? Sometimes I end up feeling like such a jerk.
While trying to focus on a rambling, interminable story from Mr. B I catch myself checking my watch. I don’t wear a watch.
While trying to last through the ceaseless string of “um’s” Mr. C uses while he cogitates a path through describing a dump truck, each “um” feels like another drop of water. During Chinese water torture.
While attempting to teach my boys a new skill I find myself rushing through the explanation, then rushing through their questions, then feeling disappointed when they flounder.
I love them both more than I can describe! But sometimes I struggle mightily to give them my undivided attention as they wrestle with mastering language, expression and communication. It’s so hard to stop myself from finishing their sentences for them, to prevent myself from “cutting to the chase,” to keep myself dialed into the point (or total lack thereof).
It can feel like running a marathon through an endless sea of waist-deep oatmeal, is what I’m saying.
But recently, I netted a win. What follows is a description of that success.
It’s my hope that this parenting success will instruct you, inform you, or just remind you that fast is slow and slow is fast with your kids.
Seizing The Teachable Moment
Quick backstory first. Last year in the months before Xmas Mr. B and Mr. C were united in their mutual desire to get something they could drive. We decided to get them a little 2-seater battery-powered dune buggy and when they saw it on Xmas morning it was a big hit.
But a few days later, it didn’t drive forward anymore it only drove in reverse. I spent an hour trying to fix it with no success. After a call to the retailer, I was told a new one would arrive that week and the delivery guy would pick up the old one.
The delivery guy came and went. A new box complete with a new dune buggy to assemble was dropped off; nothing was picked up.
After a second call to the retailer I learned that, in fact, the delivery guy was never going to pick up the old one. That it is, in fact, illegal to pick up the already assembled dune buggy due to laws which restrict interstate transport of already opened batteries of this type. During the second call I inquired of the rep what I should do with the broken dune buggy.
“You could donate it,” he said. “That’s what most people do.”
“But…it’s broken. It doesn’t drive forward,” I replied.
“Well… they could push it around,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly.
I pictured an unfortunate kid trying in vain to push the bulky, immobile dune buggy around. I pictured the brand-new dune buggy deteriorating in the local landfill. I resolved to fix it.
Fast forward to last week. After a month and a half in our new house you would think everything is unpacked and squared away, but the truth is we are only now beginning to get some sense of organization and routine back into place for our family. The boys have asked me when am I going to fix the other gator (they call the dune buggies ‘gators’) approximately eleventy billion times.
I finally made some time and began tinkering. I popped the freshly charged battery in, poked and prodded some wires and connectors, gave some parts that needed whacking some educated whacks. 15 minutes later the broken dune buggy was broken no more, it’s a miracle. The boys are ecstatic. They are clamoring for me to get the gators down in the front yard and get them ready to drive.
Inspiration strikes.
“Guys,” I announce, “I am going to show you how to do this for yourselves. And I’m going to show you how to plug the batteries into the battery compartments. And I’m going to set up a little charging station for you over here in the corner of the garage and show you how to remove the batteries from the gators when you are done playing with them and show you how to plug them into the chargers, too.”
Their response is even more excited than before. It makes me feel excited too, and kind of proud that they are enthusiastic about this. I realize that Sarah will be proud of them and proud of me for taking this initiative.
In my excitement, I launch into action. I’m describing things to them as I move, opening compartments, plugging and unplugging batteries, searching for a power strip, arranging charger cords, demonstrating plugging and unplugging a charger into the battery, Words like easy, simple and piece of cake are peppering my instructions.
Mr. C tries to pick up a battery and I freeze mid-sentence. I can see the storm cloud gathering in his eyes. He is struggling to lift the battery. It’s too heavy for him, he’s not picking it up by the handles, he’s close to dropping it on his foot.
His expression brings me back to earth, I’m coming to my senses, I realize I’m setting my boys up for failure, I realize I’m going way, way, way too fast and my expectations have gotten away from me again.
This was the turning point for me, the point where I feel like I turned what would have been a Dad fail into a Dad win.
I took a deep breath in, sat down on the garage floor next to Mr. C, and exhaled slowly. I forced myself to count to 20 in my head.
“Hey,” I said. “Let’s look a little more closely at this battery here.”
He ceased struggling to lift it and joined me on the floor to look at the battery and Mr. B joined us. I talked slowly and clearly. I talked about the battery, just the battery. I talked about the little handles, how I noticed that the handles on the battery were just like the little handle on their toolbox.
At my mention of their toolbox, Mr. B excitedly piped up, “Dada, I’ll go get our toolbox, we can put it in the gator!”
“Great idea!” agreed Mr. C, and they both stood up to leave.
I had to physically bite my lower lip to stop myself from stopping them. I wanted to redirect them back to the battery so bad. My mouth stayed shut, I sat on the garage floor and waited.
They returned with their toolbox and set it in one of the gators. I held up the battery and asked Mr. B what the power port on the battery reminded him of. He trotted over to look.
“It looks like a little mouth, dada.” I told him I thought so too. I told him that it kind of worked like a mouth, too, because the power cord goes inside the mouth and feeds the battery with electricity. Mr. C became interested in the battery again.
I then proceeded to run a marathon through a sea of oatmeal for 45 minutes.
Their interest waxed and waned throughout. There were times where my patience felt at its end, and each time I reminded myself to lower my expectations of them and my expectations of me. With each step I forced myself to go much slower than I thought necessary. And it worked.
At each step, Mr. B and Mr. C succeeded in the task set before them. They beamed with pride and pleasure. By the end, they were the loving ‘owners’ of this process from start to finish.
In Conclusion
I am not exaggerating. Slowing down so consciously and slowly felt like a monumental act of will; it felt like I was taking a year off of my life.
But the results have been speaking for themselves ever since. Mr. B and Mr. C love driving their gators and they love being in charge of their maintenance and upkeep. It would have been so easy for them to come away hating it, thinking of it as a distasteful chore, a joyless interruption of the real fun.
I come into contact with the limits of my parenting patience more than I would like to acknowledge. I am constantly humbled by the deep reserves of patience which so many good people in my life seem to posses.
That’s why it’s doubly refreshing when I can flex those muscles in a new way; when I can live up to my potential as a father, however briefly.
If any of this post speaks to you, if you have been nodding your head along as you’ve read, I encourage you to consciously choose to have a much slower than usual interaction with your child this week.
Let it feel comically, ridiculously slow if that’s what it feels like to you. Whatever it takes for you to decelerate. Linger over all the important details. Answer questions in depth, with context, by sharing emotional components.