Jan 2008
From Pam Leo, Creator of Connection Parenting
31/Jan/08 11:18 Filed in: News
by Rosie Blitchington
Centeno
yeah, ma, you...
Pam Leo emailed me the following about my work facilitating the NYC Connection Parenting Workshops:
"Rosie...Thank you so much for all the energy and creativity you put into promoting Connection Parenting, you inspire me! We ARE making a difference in the lives of families and in the world."
I enjoy being appreciated.
yeah, ma, you...
Pam Leo emailed me the following about my work facilitating the NYC Connection Parenting Workshops:
"Rosie...Thank you so much for all the energy and creativity you put into promoting Connection Parenting, you inspire me! We ARE making a difference in the lives of families and in the world."
I enjoy being appreciated.
|
Connecting with Children in the Everyday
29/Jan/08 02:22 Filed in: Maintaining
Connection
by Rosie Blitchington
Centeno
yesterday: sunset: isham park: snowman.
So what does this maintaining connection stuff look like anyway? In the everyday, when things are going well and we don't even know were are at risk for flubbing it? I'm not talking about the obvious parenting challenges here. The ones we address in the NYC Connection Parenting Workshop Series or in the myriad reasons that parents may call a life coach. I'm talking about during average everyday experiences when we are on autopilot (ok, so we are usually on autopilot when we flub it under stress, too) and we aren't aware of how a child may interpret our actions.
Here's a snippet:
"Ohhhh!" My 2-year-old daughter calls out. "Snowman!" She stops abruptly and points at the white rectangle painted on the stone steps that wind down from Isham Park.
Well, who am I to tell her it isn't?
I hold on to the urge to "correct" her, to inform her about the world, to make sure she knows all the reasons why this can't and will never be a snowman, to teach her what this "really" is. To say "No."
I hold on tightly to that impulse that overtakes us adults. That compulsion to pull children from their world into our logical one, even when it may not be in their best interest to do so. This "No" is the one that makes her "wrong" and risks whittling away a small part of her child-like, creative, joyful being with the chisel of reality.
Instead, for that second, I give over to her and her snowman. I live with her in her moment in time, her world. I began to "see" through her eyes. Now I am her ally, the leader who understands her.
"A snowman!" I say as I bend down. "What's he doing?"
"Sleeping."
"Can you show me?"
She points into the rectangle's whiteness.
"Do you want me to take a picture of him?"
"Yes." She seems content.
We move on.
yesterday: sunset: isham park: snowman.
So what does this maintaining connection stuff look like anyway? In the everyday, when things are going well and we don't even know were are at risk for flubbing it? I'm not talking about the obvious parenting challenges here. The ones we address in the NYC Connection Parenting Workshop Series or in the myriad reasons that parents may call a life coach. I'm talking about during average everyday experiences when we are on autopilot (ok, so we are usually on autopilot when we flub it under stress, too) and we aren't aware of how a child may interpret our actions.
Here's a snippet:
"Ohhhh!" My 2-year-old daughter calls out. "Snowman!" She stops abruptly and points at the white rectangle painted on the stone steps that wind down from Isham Park.
Well, who am I to tell her it isn't?
I hold on to the urge to "correct" her, to inform her about the world, to make sure she knows all the reasons why this can't and will never be a snowman, to teach her what this "really" is. To say "No."
I hold on tightly to that impulse that overtakes us adults. That compulsion to pull children from their world into our logical one, even when it may not be in their best interest to do so. This "No" is the one that makes her "wrong" and risks whittling away a small part of her child-like, creative, joyful being with the chisel of reality.
Instead, for that second, I give over to her and her snowman. I live with her in her moment in time, her world. I began to "see" through her eyes. Now I am her ally, the leader who understands her.
"A snowman!" I say as I bend down. "What's he doing?"
"Sleeping."
"Can you show me?"
She points into the rectangle's whiteness.
"Do you want me to take a picture of him?"
"Yes." She seems content.
We move on.