Many one-on-ones can be scheduled on your family calendar. But this woman also observed that you can’t always plan ahead for quality one-on-one time.
In addition to our planned one-on-ones, there were times when my husband or I could tell that one of our sons was a little on edge. As parents, we’d try to pick up on that and arrange time to talk. Usually Dave would take him fishing or I would take him to lunch. Dave and I tried to take turns. We didn’t both go because we didn’t want our boys to feel that their parents were ganging up on them.
When our boys felt comfortable, they would usually share what was on their minds. Sometimes it was something that was happening with the other boys that they didn’t like. Sometimes it was a problem at school-they felt a particular teacher didn’t like them or they were behind in their homework and didn’t know how to make it up.
We’d say, “Would you like to go back home and discuss it? Would you like us to help you with this?” It was always their decision. We recognized that they needed to learn how to make decisions and fix things for themselves. But we also realized that everyone needs someone to talk to, to give additional perspective, to help with exploring options.
This is not something you can always plan. It has to be in you. It has to be part of your heart. It has to come naturally out of being a kind, caring parent who can look at your children and realize that things are not okay and that you need to spend some one-on-one time. Your child needs you.
The most important thing is that family comes first, no matter what. We are convinced that if we put family first, we won’t have the crises in our family that take months, even years of trying to fix. We’ll nip it in the bud, right at the beginning.
Notice that even more than a matter of scheduling, prioritizing the family is a way of thinking. It’s constantly reconnecting with the importance of family, and acting based on that value rather than reacting to whatever is happening at the moment.
“I Don’t Care How Much You Know Until I Know How Much You Care”
I will never forget an experience I had with one of our daughters during one of our one-on-one times. She seemed very cross, very irritable, and had been acting that way toward everyone in the house. When I asked her what was wrong, she’d say, “Oh, nothing.”
One of the ground rules Sandra and I have in our one-on-ones with the children is that we always let them talk about whatever they want to talk about for as long as they want to talk. They can beef about something, they can complain or moan to their heart’s content, and we can’t give any advice unless they ask for it. In other words, as parents we simply seek to understand.
So I just listened. As a young adult, this daughter looked back on that experience and wrote the following:
Cynthia (daughter):
When I was five years old, my parents moved to Belfast, Ireland, for three years. I picked up on my playmates’ Irish accent, and when I returned to third grade, I had a strong Irish brogue.
Because I had lived in Ireland, I hadn’t learned to play American games such as kick the can, baseball, capture the flag, or jump rope rhymes, and I felt very out of it. I could sense the kids in my class thought I was different because they couldn’t understand me, and I didn’t know how to play any of the games they had been playing for years.
My teacher stuck me in speech therapy to get rid of my accent and tried to help me catch up academically because I lagged far behind. I was having trouble especially in math but was afraid to admit that I didn’t know some of the basics. I didn’t want to stand out any more, and I longed to be accepted and have friends.
Instead of asking for help in math, I discovered that all the answers to our worksheets were on cards in the back of the room. I began sneaking those cards out and then copying the answers without being caught. It seemed for a time all my problems were solved. In my heart I knew it was wrong, but it seemed to me the end justified the means. I began getting attention from the teacher and other students for doing so well. In fact, I was presented as the model student who worked hard, finished my work quickly, and consistently scored the highest in the class.
It was wonderful for a while because I was popular and a lot of kids liked me. But my conscience kept after me because I knew I had betrayed myself and what my parents had always taught me about honesty. I wanted to stop. I was so ashamed of cheating. But now I was in a trap and didn’t know how to get out of it without totally humiliating myself. I had to keep cheating because the teacher expected me to do well every time now. I was miserable, and the problem seemed insurmountable to an eight-year-old with no way out.
I knew I should tell my parents what was happening, but I was too embarrassed because I was the oldest. I began acting out at home, losing my temper easily because of the pressure of dealing with this problem alone. My parents told me later that they could sense something was very wrong in my life, but they didn’t know what it was.
In Ireland, we had started the practice of having “private interviews” with a parent once a month. This was a time when we could talk about anything we wanted, complain about home duties or unfairness shown, talk about our friends or anything that interested us, give ideas for activities, share problems, or whatever. The rule was that Mom or Dad could only listen—not talk or criticize, or give advice or suggestions without being invited to. We all looked forward to our private interviews.
During one of these interviews, my dad let me go off about some injustice I felt my parents dealt me without defending himself or getting angry. He could sense that wasn’t the real problem, and he just let me talk. Finally, when I felt accepted and not condemned, I cautiously started to open up a little to sense his reaction. He asked if things were going well in school and if I was happy there. Defensively, I blurted out, “If you only knew, you’d think I was terrible! I can’t tell you about it.”
For a few minutes he affirmed his unconditional love and acceptance of me, and I felt his sincerity. I had opened up on other occasions about things without rebuke, and so I felt I could trust him with the awful truth.
Suddenly it just blurted from me, and I found myself crying and yelling, “I’M CHEATING IN MATH!” Then I fell into his arms. It was such a relief to get it out, even though I couldn’t see a solution and feared the consequences. I had shared my terrible secret with my father, and I still felt his love and support of me in spite of it.
I remember him saying, “Oh, how awful for you to have had this inside you for so long! I wish you had told me so I could have helped you.” He asked if he could call my mother into the room, and then I told them the whole story. I saw no way out, but amazingly enough they helped me work out a solution that would not totally humiliate me. We would go together to the teacher. I would get a sixth grader to help me with my math.
They affirmed me and understood what happened, and to this day I can still feel the relief of that moment. Who knows what pattern I would have established in my life and what road I would have taken if I had continued in my dishonesty. But I was able to share my problem with parents who had already established a relationship of trust and a track record of consistent love and encouragement. They had made such huge deposits over the years that my large withdrawal did not leave me totally bankrupt. Instead, that day I collected interest.
I often think back to that experience, and I wonder what would have happened if I had been so busy, so rushed, so anxious to get to an appointment or to get on to something “more important” that I didn’t take the time to really listen. What more would that daughter have gone through? What different choices might she have made?
I’m so grateful, at least in that circumstance, that we had set aside the time to be together, to focus on the relationship. That one hour together made a profound difference in both our lives.