One day I was sitting in the food court sipping my Starbucks mocha just watching people. You’d be surprised at the number of moms who actually engage in dialog with their children while eating their Pizza Hut breadsticks. Most moms sit staring off in space waiting for their children to finish eating. The children appear oblivious to mom’s lack of engagement and chatter aimlessly. The moms reply with uh-huhs, sometimes while texting friends. Once I saw a mother of three young boys sit down and enjoy each moment and enthusiastically interact with her crew. When they were finishing up the meal I had to go over and tell the mother how wonderful it was to see a mom fully present with her kids. You could tell this family clicked on many levels. She burst into a huge smile and told me I’d made her day. No, she made mine.
Back to the mom from last week. You could hear her coming because she was herding her children along. Only one child was in the cart, she had let the other two walk and carry their own mini pizza boxes and they weren’t walking fast enough for her. So I heard the rumbling of the cart and the barking of the mother before I saw her and her three young boys.
They selected the table right behind me to set up camp. The youngest was definitely under two, the middle boy was about four and the oldest was around five. The littlest one stood backwards on his chair to eat. The other two were dipping their pizzas in too much sauce according to their mother. She sat there looking trapped snapping out commands and not following up on one.
“That’s too much sauce, look what you did. Stop that.”
“Hey come back here! OK sit over there but we’re here to eat so get your pizza.”
“Sit down!”
“Would you just eat?!!”
Over and over she tossed out commands to kids who had obviously learned to tune her out long ago. I don’t think she was aware of how she sounded. I got a good look at her when I stood up to throw away my coffee cup. She was left with the toddler and the older two had climbed on stools at a nearby counter. Her table was strewn with pizza boxes, bread stick containers, balled up napkins and crumbs everywhere. She was the most miserable looking parent I had ever seen. Her face wore the look of a parenting hostage who felt trapped in her life. Her tone was laden with exasperation and frustration as she told the boys it was time to go.
I wanted to spontaneously begin one of the parenting workshops I conduct just for this woman in dire need of a communication makeover. In the scheme of things, does it really matter how much sauce is used and when? Does it make sense to repeat orders and not follow up?
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