Do Less.

Emotional Autonomy in Kid Language 

The other day, Jesse asked me, "How are you, honey?" as we passed in the hall like night-ships in the day. 

 

"Distant," I said. "Like I'm just going through the motions."

 

I'm not sure this is a phrase that has ever past through my lips. It tasted wrong coming out. I am simply not wired for going-through-the-motions sort of statements. Complacency is not my jam. I am wired for Big Feelings and Anxiety and Confusion and all the rest, but this distant feeling, this feeling like my life is at arm's length, is foreign.

 

Jesse nodded, as if to say I hear ya, and we retreated to our respective parts of the house—his, the bedroom to finish his work day. Me, downstairs to hang out with Ruth for many many many more minutes, contemplating cracking open a beer at 2:30pm how to find some meaning in yet another round of Play-mobile.

~~~

 

In his irreplaceable book, Care of the Soul, Thomas Moore writes, "Observing the soul, we keep an eye on its sheep, whatever is wandering and grazing—the latest addiction, a striking dream, or a troubling mood."

 

The Pandemic has felt like a residential program in experiencing feelings. Feelings that range from room- filling, shade-pulling, and all-encompassing—those ranging in texture from drippy sadness to exposed-wire irritation to burning rage—to the smaller guys that hang on like allergies, or an eye twitch, a headache, or just, meh. All in the comfort of your own home.

 

The flip side is also true—laughter is more boisterous, joy more brilliant and precise. Gratitude has a pulse all its own.

 

But regarding the uncomfortable examples—how do we keep our feelings from impacting those who are (constantly) around us??

~~~ 

Emotional autonomy is tricky with any roommate, let alone with two young kids.

 

Kids can tell a mile away what their grown-ups are feeling, no matter what brand of sloppy grin us grown-ups use to try and cover it. Even when I am feeling just one notch lower than usual, what would perhaps register to others as simply sleepy, my kids know. Ruth will ask me on a loop, ARE YOU HAPPY? ARE YOU HAPPY? And Opal will harmonize with her by asking, "HOW ARE YOU? HOW ARE YOU?" They know. So camouflaging, even if it worked for us, which it doesn't, is not an option for them, either.

 

Hiding emotions (to 'protect' those around me) only makes those same emotions come out sideways—often aggressively and cloaked as something else. Over-expressing is not helpful either. There is a middle way for a parent to be transparent about how they are doing without forcing x-ray vision onto their children. And when what we say matches how we are and feel, we give our kids the language for their own feelings. 

 

Thomas Moore continued by making it clear that we are not observing (our negative emotions) in order to fix or heal. "In relation to the symptom itself, observance means first of all listening and looking carefully at what is being revealed in the suffering. An intent to heal can get in the way of seeing. By doing less, more is accomplished."

~~~

So what does that mean— to do less?

 

This has been a place of much concentrated learning over the last many months. A masterclass, indeed! We are social scientists in our own home, shy of only lab coats and spreadsheets. And the development this week came in the form of Donkey Farts.

 

I'll explain (even though I kind of want to leave it right there):

 

A few weeks ago, Opal was getting some orthodontic work done and she was feeling pretty nervous. As we were walking out the door, Ruth, basking in a moment of sheer four-year-old wisdom, said, "Opal, when you are scared, think of Donkey Farts."

A well-meaning comment like this can often land in a thud, with Jesse and I fighting the impulse to pick it up off the ground and re-frame it so Opal will appreciate it fully. But this time, no need. Opal smiled. She got it.

 

And thus, a tool was born.

 

Both kids started saying Donkey Farts as a shorthand-offering for any emotional ailment. When Ruth fell and skinned her knee, Opal kneeled next to her and whispered Donkey Farts, and Ruth's tear-glossed cheeks turned upwards with a giggle. When Ruth lost her favorite Pascal stuffed animal, searching under a cloak of despondency, Opal peeked her head in around the corner and whispered Donkey Farts. 

 

The phrase rings with more depth than just a silly joke-verse to distract and get a laugh, though that is definitely part of it. It is emotional kid-language for your feelings are yours, but I can relate and I love you. They likely don't realize all this, my guess is they just say it because it feels good to know what to say during a tough moment. Also, as the recipient of the Donkey Fart, I would imagine it feels good to be recognized without sensing that someone is trying to change your feelings.

 

(It doesn't always work. There are certainly moments when Ruth will recognize that Opal is upset and follow into her doorway, knock, crack it open, and sweetly whisper, Donkey Farts, Opal. To which, we'll hear Opal yell, NOT NOW, RUTH. And Ruth will keep saying it as she does the walk of shame down the hall, as if it were a code that she must not be executing correctly. Subtleties can be so confusing. Or when Opal says it to Ruth with the hopes that it will quiet down the yelling. Those moments missed their mark, but more often than not, it is used brilliantly and lovingly.)

~~~

Just last week, Opal tested out this approach of doing less.

 

Jesse was exhausted after a long day of COVID work-from-home reality. He was getting dinner together while I hung with the kids, as has become our routine lately. He wasn't grumpy exactly, just quiet, not his sparkly self. This, for us adults, is not a big deal, utterly human and valid. Dinner will happen, we'll all decompress and the evening will unfold with more aeration. 

 

Ruth was busy playing and didn't even notice. But this kind of moment can be—and historically has been—especially tough for our sensitive ten-year-old. If Jesse and I are experiencing an imperfect mood, she'll want to help, to make it better, to hurry it along. She will be the farthest thing from comfortable until we are all good.

 

This time, however, Opal was on her couch, reading a graphic novel. Having spent weeks unwittingly practicing the art of emotional autonomy, mostly with her little sister, she hollered, "Hey Dad, Donkey Farts!" Then she went back to her book, cool as a pickle, utterly free of the heavy, wet rope that often binds her to the unpleasant emotions of others.

 

("Opal!" I told her later. "You said so much in those two words! How beautiful was that?" Then I tackle-hugged her, which she is—praise god—still young enough to accept without resistance.)

Jesse peeked out of the kitchen with an ornery smile of understanding, and said, "Thanks, honey."

 

And so, more was accomplished.

~~~