Leading Mama

To Err is Human, To Admit It Is Leadership

I'm reading a book by Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson entitled Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me): Why We Justify Foolish Beliefs, Bad Decisions, and Hurtful Acts. Both giants in the field of social psychology, Tavris and Aronson review 50 years of research on cognitive dissonance and self-justification, explaining how we tend to rationalize, justify, ignore, and evade evidence suggesting we’ve erred. 

 

The fragile ego needs protection, after all.

 

Tavris and Aronson remark, “To err is human, but humans have a choice between covering up and fessing up.” And most often, when confronted with proof we’re wrong, become even more tenacious in our own self-deception and self-defense.

 

It’s easy to find public examples in politics and on Wall Street these days. Just last night as we watched 60 Minutes, I wondered how hedge fund managers who made MILLIONS of dollars on credit default swaps and derivatives could live with themselves as they watch the US economy crumble before their eyes. People are losing their homes, their retirement savings, their jobs. 

 

The answer, of course, is that bankers and hedge fund managers and legislators responsible for the credit crunch live with themselves “exactly the way the rest of us do.” Now I’m not saying you or I have made bad decisions that impacted millions and millions of people (and Tavris and Aronson didn’t say that either). 

 

What I am saying is the psychological process of self-justification that allows them to sleep at night is the same one that allows you or I to live with the knowledge we’ve screwed up and hurt those we love, perhaps deeply.

 

In the last 24 hours, I’ve had two opportunities to admit a mistake. I confess in the more emotional, personally meaningful situation, I responded just like social psychologists would predict (and their predictions are not usually very favorable). In the less emotional, more black-and-white business-related situation, I very quickly (though not without embarrassment) admitted my error, explained how it happened, expressed my sincerest apologies, and asked for a gracious response from the individual I wronged. (And I'm happy to say the situation was resolved positively.)

 

The difficult situation was an argument with my husband, who felt I was critical of his parenting behavior. I fairly quickly dug in my heels (“I did not criticize you”), justified my behavior (“You started it”), and walked away from additional confrontation (literally).  

 

In the minutes that followed, what flashed through my mind was all the evidence to support my position, and a host of unspoken arguments to counteract his. I won’t list them here, and I’m glad that – at least this time – I kept all those not-so-kind words to myself. Keeping my mouth shut certainly isn’t my nature. 

 

Without the prompting of Mistakes Were Made, I’m not sure I would have re-evaluated what happened yesterday. Actually, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have. 

 

While I easily find fault with my hair (it’s flat today), my thighs (not as thin as they should be), my housekeeping (not a high priority), it’s much harder to see mistakes in my own behavior. I think that’s true for most of us. Real life requires a little (well, maybe a lot) of self-deception. We all make bad decisions at times, and sometimes our behavior hurts others. In order to feel like good, honest, caring, capable people, we justify it. Then we remember it selectively, culling out the parts that aren’t so flattering like we cut bad boyfriends out of our college photo albums. 

 

While I still don’t believe I criticized him directly, I certainly see how my husband interpreted it that way. And I am truly sorry I hurt him. That seems like a step in the right direction. I admit I’ve got a ways to go.

 

Now if those hedge fund managers would fess up, we could all sleep better tonight.

Zen and the Art of Grandparenting

I just came home from a trip to California to visit my extended family. My son got to spend time with his grandma, playing with toys, reading books, picking flowers in the yard, and riding the Sugar Pine railroad Jenny car through the forest. He pulled down Halloween decorations, spilled juice on her floor, whined and cried for no apparent reason, and threw food off his highchair – all the things he does at home (same kid, different location).

 

And grandma never lost her cool. She patiently coos “What’s the matter? Are things not going your way today?” She busies him with nature walks, distracts him with books. She never reaches the level of exasperation that I, his mother, reach when he makes yet another mess for me to clean up.

 

We visited my grandparents on this trip as well. My grandpa is 95 years old and sharp as ever. Earlier this month he took the driver’s test (written and behind-the-wheel) to prove he’s still got what it takes to drive from the house to the ranch and back. He passed with flying colors. My grandma is almost 91, and currently painting more than 20 pieces of china for the California state china painter’s convention. Her dishes are simply beautiful.

 

As I look back at my childhood, I have fond memories of time with my grandparents. I recall dinners at their house when my cousins and I played croquet in the yard, and sleepovers when we’d listen to Bozo the Clown records describing Bozo’s trip to Borneo and other exotic destinations.

 

Each year, the grandkids would get to count the change in grandpa’s change drawer and roll all the coins before splitting the booty six ways. We made some serious money and learned a lot of math, too. When we went home, grandma would make up a “care package” of snacks for the ride. She’d often include a golden delicious apple.

 

None of these activities has the pure kiddo appeal of a trip to Disneyland or a Wii system. But time with his grandparents is far more precious than any gift I could give my son. Why? Because

 

• Grandparents have time. And they haven’t read your story book 423 times this week, so they still delight in reading it again and again.
• Grandparents are patient. They don’t expect kids to hurry and wash their hands, hurry and get in the car, or hurry and brush their teeth. Grandparents go with the flow of kid time.
• Grandparents take the long view. They don’t get caught up in the minute-to-minute trials and tribulations of parenthood. They’re eager to see kids grow and change, but they don’t pressure kids to achieve milestone or ace tests at school. Grandparents love who we are right now, not who they think we might become someday.

Next time my son eats blue crayon or makes me drag his limp body across a busy parking lot, I’ll stop and ask myself “What would grandma do?” After all, toddlerhood doesn’t last forever. And someday I’ll miss reading books with my son. Even if it is the same story over and over.

 

We're All In This Together

The world seems to be tilting on it's axis right now. Financial markets rise and then plummet, see-sawing up and down fast enough to induce nausea. Political candidates jab at one another like tired prize fighters, and stammer to explain their positions on issues of global and lasting importance. If you stop long enough to think about the future, you may just end up in tears. I do. It all seems so uncertain.

At times like these, it pays to remember that we're all in this together.

Anxiety has a way of making you feel more alone and more vulnerable. Life feels less like an adventure and more like a threat when you're isolated. It's a vicious downward spiral.

This week we're visiting my family in California. As we waited for our flight at the airport Tuesday, I followed my busy toddler around the terminal. He pointed out planes, climbed on the chairs, and ran circles around other waiting passengers.

And he hugged people. That's right. Mama's little cling-monster broke free of his stranger anxiety at Washington's Reagan National Airport. He ran full speed ahead, darting and dashing between people until another child caught his attention. And then, without warning or pretense, he ran to his fellow pint-sized traveler, arms open wide, and gave them a hug. And they hugged him back.

He made friends with one young boy, Cameron, who was on his way home to Park City, Utah after visiting his Grandma in Virginia. We explained we were on our way to visit Carson's Grandma, who lives in California. The boys played in the airport gate area and talked at the back of the plane in line for the lavatory. Fast friends indeed.

Grown ups don't approach others this way. We hustle and bustle along, getting things done, worrying about how we'll pay the bills, whether we're teaching our kids the right lessons, and what tomorrow will bring. And the weight of our responsibilities seems to rest on our narrow shoulders alone.

Perhaps what we need is more hugs -- a stronger sense of camaraderie with others. Life is, after all, a daring adventure, or nothing at all. And we're all in this together.

Fall into Fall

Fall has arrived here in northern Virginia. The first bright red and yellow leaves adorn the maple trees and pumpkins peek from porches on our street. Our daily walk to the mailbox -- complete with squirrel chasing, acorn collecting, pumpkin spotting, and leaf inspection -- now takes more than 30 minutes each way (if I let it). There's simply too much for a toddler to take in any faster than that.

I encourage you to "fall into fall" and reclaim childhood for your kids (and yourself!)

In "Reclaiming Childhood: Letting Children Be Children in Our Achievement-Oriented Society," developmental psychologist and activist William Crain reviews research on children’s love of nature, affinity for artwork, penchant for drama, and naturally unfolding linguistic abilities. In each area, he reveals patterns of growth and development and questions whether it’s wise to redirect children to our learning goals rather than those that come naturally.

A devotee of the child-centered approach to learning advanced by Arnold Gesell and applied by Maria Montessori, Crain believes “children enter the world preeminently ‘wise’ about what they need and what they are ready and not ready to do.” Parents, then, ought to take their cues from children and create opportunities for them to explore what they find most fascinating.

If you’ve wondered how the standardized testing movement began and how it might conflict with child-centered approaches to education, Crain’s historical and sociological analyses in final chapters will engage your thinking (and make you angry).

If that’s more than you’d like to chew right now, his initial exploration of child as naturalist, artist, dramatist and linguist will motivate you to get out and play with your children in the dirt, pile up some fall leaves (and fall into them) or build a stage and star in your own family theater. Either way, both you and the kids will reclaim some childhood magic.

Reading is a Contact Sport

Today’s post is dedicated to developmental psychologist and former book-club buddy, Diane S. You really know how to pick ‘em, Diane!

 

I don’t usually look particularly glamorous in the morning. My hair ties itself in knots while I sleep and puffy eyes aren’t pretty. But I don’t usually wake up with the bruised, swollen upper lip of a prize fighter, either.

 

You see, yesterday I sustained the first injury of motherhood (pitocin-induced labor trauma aside). I’ve been working on an article on great books for toddler boys. A while back, I asked friends who are also moms of boys to share with me their boys’ favorite books. My friend Diane (mom of two boys) sent a fabulous list of titles and tips for engaging little guys as you read. This week, as I’ve been collating my research, we headed to the library to check out lots of recommended reads. One of the books Diane recommended is “Rattletrap Car” by Phyllis Root.

 

In this fun-to-read story, Jakie, Junie and the baby are hot and dusty. A cool splash in the lake sounds great, and they convince Poppa to take them. Soon they head off to the lake in their rattletrap car, carrying beach toys and sugary snacks. “They don’t go fast and they don’t go far” before a series of disasters takes place. The rattletrap car falls apart, one piece at a time.

 

Fortunately, Jakie, Junie, Poppa, and even the baby fix one problem after another using nothing but their beach toys and sugary snacks. It’s a “MacGyver meets the Clampetts” kind of tale, with wonderful rhyming, repetitious sound effects, and fun drawings.

 

It’s the sound effects that got me in trouble.

 

As I read “Poppa turned the key, brum brum, brum brum…fizzelly sizzelly…wappity bappity…lumpety bumpety…clinkety clankety…bing bang, POP,” I built such fun suspense that my son pitched himself backward in my lap to celebrate the POP and head-butted me HARD on the upper lip.

 

Tears welled up in my eyes. My teeth hurt so bad I started thinking about how we’d pay for the root canal and subsequent cosmetic dentistry. Now that’s something to cry about.

 

It took me awhile to calm down and finish the story. But finish we did. We’ve even read the story several times today -- and I'd highly recommend it.

 

I’m sure the bruise will fade soon, and I don’t think I’ll need a false tooth. But if I do, I hope the dentist “glues it in tight with chocolate marshmallow fudge delight!” My son would really get a kick out of that!

 

Sleep Like a Baby? No, Thank You

Do you remember the first weeks of parenthood – when you doubtlessly awoke 4+ times each night to soothe, feed or change your baby? Even if you followed the advice to “sleep when the baby sleeps” you likely never felt well-rested or fully alert. There’s just something about broken sleep that fails to truly restore.

 

I’ll take 6 hours of uninterrupted shut-eye over 8 hours of broken-up snoozing any day – and I’m not a short sleeper. If I had my choice, I’d sleep 9 hours a night. (Don’t hate me for this – I don’t get 9 hours of sleep a night. Actually, I don’t even get 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep these days, but that’s another story.)

 

I don’t know where the phrase “you’ll sleep like a baby” came from, but I say “No, thanks!” I want to sleep like a toddler.

 

When my toddler falls asleep, he sleeps hard. There’s no struggle to let go and sleep, no waking up fussing, no restless movement that needs swaddling. His busy, explorative energy depleted, he’ll sleep in the car seat despite the honking of impatient DC area drivers. He’ll sleep on my shoulder as I carry him up three flights of creaky wood stairs. When he’s really worn out, he’ll crash in the high chair only seconds after he finishes his lunch, his head bent over in a clearly uncomfortable position.

 

At night, we nudge him toward sleep with a (somewhat flexible) nighttime routine. We play and read while cooking dinner. After eating together, he plays with his trains and then takes a bath with his turtles and boats. He splashes with abandon. Next it’s time for his jammies (with non-slip feet, of course). Snuggled into the mountain of pillows on our king-sized bed, he has movie time with Dad (complete with ice cream). Current favorites include Finding Nemo and Cars.

 

His final 15 minutes are spent reading on Mom’s lap. As I kiss him goodnight, I hand him the stuffed doggie/blanket he’s grown attached to and tell him “I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.” He rolls over happily, smiles at me, and snuggles in to doggie for the night.

 

When he wakes up, 10+ hours later, he heads straight for the side of his crib, pulls himself up, and jumps up and down to announce his excitement. Today is going to be so much fun, he can’t wait to get started.

 

Perhaps the best measure of a good night’s rest is boundless enthusiasm for the day ahead. That’s why I want to sleep like a toddler.