a true story about autonomy
The Getting-Dressed Battle: One Trick That Ends It
It's 7:50, she's still in her pajamas, and she just went boneless on the hallway floor.
the realization
She wasn't refusing the clothes. She was refusing being bossed. The second I stopped handing down orders and handed her two shirts instead, she stopped fighting because now she was the one deciding.
Every morning turned into the same standoff. Ten minutes to leave, and she's still in her pajama top, feet planted, telling me NO like it's her whole job. And I'd do what I always did: get louder, list the reasons, count to three like the number three has magic in it.
have you ever felt this way too?
It never worked. The more I pushed, the smaller and harder she got. One morning she actually lay down flat on the floor, arms crossed, and I just stood there over her holding a tiny pair of jeans, both of us stuck.
So I stopped. I put the jeans down and grabbed two shirts, the red one and the striped one, and held them both up. I heard myself say it different this time, not a command, just a question. Red one or the stripes? You pick.
And she looked at them. That was it. She pointed at the stripes and grabbed it herself, because now it was HER idea. Not two minutes earlier she was on the floor. Now she was tugging it over her own head, telling me she did it all by herself.
what I found myself saying
"I put the jeans down and said, red one or the stripes, you pick."
"Not ten choices, just two I could live with either way."
"You want to do it, or should we do it together?"
