Connection changes everything.

On my son’s second birthday, the whole family was gathered, and the energy in the house was high. While we were eating cake, I noticed that my daughter, who was four years old, was completely off track. She threw an orange across the table and then started licking her grandpa’s face. These were clear signs that she was struggling and unable to think clearly.

At that moment, I decided to use Special Time. I said, “Come on, let’s step away for a bit. Let’s have some Special Time.” She immediately agreed, and we headed to her bedroom. She told me she wanted to read a book together.

We snuggled into her teepee, set a timer for ten minutes, and spent the time reading a book together. This focused attention seemed to be exactly what she needed. We stayed there until the timer went off, enjoying our quiet time and connection.

When we went back downstairs, she was completely calm and content. The rest of the birthday celebration went smoothly, with no more signs of distress.

My son was 2 years old at the time, and the day before had been a lot for all of us. We’d spent the entire day visiting family, my parents and my aunt, and it was stimulating and exhausting. He fell asleep on the way home and didn’t get to bed until around 9 PM. I even thought “Tomorrow might be a day with a lot of emotions coming up.”

And it was. He woke early despite the late bedtime. I could tell right away he was not his usual self: tired, sensitive, and off track. It was Easter morning, and we were trying to prepare a festive brunch. But everything was difficult with an off track toddler in tow.

Then I started washing the grapes. He asked for one, and his sister sweetly offered him one, but it wasn’t the right grape. He threw the grape onto the floor. Then he picked up a second grape and was just about to throw it too.

I stepped in and gently placed my hand on his, just enough to stop the throwing motion. I knelt down to be at his level and said calmly, “I can’t let you throw the grape.” And with that, the dam burst.

He screamed. He stomped. He cried loudly, fully, heartbreakingly. I stayed right with him, soft eyes, grounded voice, not budging on the limit but offering all the connection I had. I said gently, “I can’t let you throw the grape.”

It lasted a long time. At least 15 of intense crying, yelling, stamping. And I stayed, soft eyes, open heart, holding the limit with warmth. I could see how overwhelmed he felt, how much had been stored up from the day before. I didn’t fix it. I didn’t distract. I just listened.

And slowly, he softened. The storm passed. He ate the grape slowly, with real enjoyment. He asked for more and sat contentedly eating them one by one. The rest of our Easter brunch was peaceful and joyful. He was grounded again.

One morning, my son, who was two years old, wanted a very specific breakfast: mashed banana mixed with grated apple. He started grating the apple himself but, after a while, simply decided he didn’t want to continue and asked me to do it. I finished grating the apple, added it to the banana, and mixed everything together.

The moment I stirred the bowl, he burst into tears. He cried, “I wanted to mix it! I wanted to mix it!” But it was too late: the banana and apple were already blended.

I could have tried to explain that

I was only helping, that the food would taste the same or that we could make another one. Instead I chose Staylistening. I knelt down to his level, put a gentle hand on his back, and simply said, “I’m sorry. I didn't know.”

He sobbed and sobbed, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his feelings. I didn’t try to distract him or minimize his emotions. I just stayed with him, looking into his eyes, listening, and repeating softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to mix it.”

He cried for a long time, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Then, almost suddenly, he took a deep breath, looked at me, and said, “Okay, I want to eat it now.” He carefully carried his bowl to the table, sat down, and ate his breakfast peacefully.

Small things can feel huge to a young child, and that when we hold space for their emotions instead of shutting them down, they can move through their upset and return to connection.

My daughter was 5, and my son was almost 3, when we visited a friend whose daughter is the same age as mine. It was getting late, and I let the kids know ahead of time that we’d be leaving soon. My son was ready when the time came, but my daughter was absolutely not. She and her friend were having the time of their lives and had no interest in ending it. In fact, they decided they were going to sleep over and declared they weren’t leaving.

As I started collecting our things, I could feel a sense of “Oh no, what now?” rising in me. I wanted to stay connected, and I didn’t want to go into threats or power struggles. So I decided to shift into Playlistening.

I began expressing my “helplessness” in an exaggerated, playful tone: “But what will I do if you don’t come with me?” My daughter grinned and called back defiantly, “I’m not coming!” Her friend joined in, and together they hid on the trampoline in the yard.

I followed them in full play mode. Her friend blocked the entrance and shouted, “You can’t come in here!” I gasped in mock dismay, “Oh no! Do you really think I can’t get through here?” I tried squeezing through dramatically, failing on purpose. I went to the other side. “Maybe this way?” Again, “Nope! Not working!” They giggled and shrieked with delight.

Eventually, I made it onto the trampoline, and her friend knocked me down with great enthusiasm. Every time I tried to get to my daughter, I’d get toppled over again. I went all in, groaning dramatically, flopping over, trying again and again. The two girls were roaring with laughter.

Eventually, I gently went to my daughter and said with warmth, “It’s time to go.” She paused, then said, “Okay. I’ll go a different way and meet you at the car.” I said, “Alright,” and went toward the car. Sure enough, a moment later, there she was.

It took some time before we were able to leave. But I didn’t have to threaten or disconnect. Playlistening gave us a playful way through the resistance.

When my daughter was four years old, she had to undergo a dental procedure under general anesthesia. The experience was deeply traumatic for both of us. Six months later, we had another dental appointment because she developed a gum infection, and a tooth needed to be extracted under general anesthesia. When I learned we had to go through it again, all my old fears and memories resurfaced, especially the helplessness of watching her look at me with fearful eyes. I felt overwhelmed with anxiety and started wondering if I should send my husband instead to avoid reliving that experience.

I decided to turn to several Listening Partnerships. I opened up to my listeners about my fears and the lingering anger I had towards the doctors who had treated us poorly the first time. As I spoke, I could feel the emotions welling up, and I allowed myself to cry. I sobbed as I recalled my daughter’s frightened eyes and my own sense of powerlessness in that moment. I even pretended to yell at the doctors, expressing everything I hadn’t been able to say at the time. My listeners simply held space for me, accepting everything I said without judgment or advice.

As I let the tears flow and fully expressed my feelings, I felt a shift. I tapped into a new sense of empowerment. I realized I wanted to be there for my daughter this time, to show her that I don’t leave when things get hard. I told my husband “I can do this,” and I went into that appointment with confidence.

During the procedure, I clearly expressed to the medical staff how I wanted things handled. Everyone respected my requests. When it became time for the anesthesia, I held my daughter close and looked into her eyes. “I’m right here with you,” I told her. She fell asleep peacefully in my arms, and I stayed grounded and calm throughout.

The experience was so different from the first time, and I know it wouldn’t have been possible without the Listening Partnerships. Being able to release the burden of my old feelings, and to face my fears allowed me to be fully present for my daughter when she needed me most.