Listening to Your Teen

When your teenagers were kids, some relative or perhaps even your child's pediatrician passed on to you the age-old wisdom of counting to ten before saying no to your children. This practice leaves your kids feeling listened to and gives you some reflection time to consider whether no is indeed what you want to say. That is, maybe there is no reason to have your five-year-old stay buckled in his car seat while you and he wait for your wife who has run into the convenience store for a half-gallon of milk. Your kids feel listened to and you have the opportunity to think anew about the situation at hand rather than to respond reactively. When your child reaches adolescence, this practice of counting to ten before saying no needs an upgrade.

Now instead of counting to ten before saying no, you need to count to ten before saying anything! That is, when whatever they are saying activates your anxiety, that's when you need to stay quiet and expectant for ten seconds, which gets you a passing grade on the test your teenager is putting you through. Will you listen even when the stakes go up and make you nervous? Your counting to ten slowly and staying silent gives her the time to realize that you are respecting her independence (you aren't brushing her aside), that it is a tough situation (you don't have an easy answer), that you believe in her (the expectant look on your face and in your demeanor), that you won't try to control her (you're not lecturing her), and that you won't abandon her (you're still there). In other words, lots happens in those ten seconds of quiet. (By the way, as a practical matter, you can't rush from one to ten as a six-year-old does in a game of Hide and Seek; you have to take your time. I suggest One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three . . . )

I took to heart the idea of counting to ten whenever my teenage son made me anxious by what he was saying to me, or more often, by what he was implying. It was hard. At around seven or eight, an ulcer seemed to be forming in my stomach and I could feel the beginnings of what I could only imagine was a migraine. But just before I hit ten, everything shifted. Suddenly, I was calm and my breathing was back to normal. I took a deep breath and looked at my son. He was watching, and as soon as our eyes met he shifted his gaze and began talking again. Only this time, it was different. He seemed more sincere and more trusting of me. He began to tell me what he had already tried to do to resolve his problem, which frightened me—but I said nothing, I just nodded. Then he explained why each previous attempt had failed, which surprised me because he was more insightful, reflective, and mature than I had expected. Then he told me what he was thinking of doing, which made me proud—because it is pretty much what I would have done. In the end, all I had to do was support him in what he had already determined to do. Sometimes, just staying vigilant about your listening will actually come full circle over a short amount of time. Here is one parent's story worth remembering when you're tempted to intervene:

As usual, I forgot about the assignment until the day before class met. Fortunately, it was a holiday so there was plenty of time to get in my five minutes. But just as I was thinking this, I heard a crash in my son's room, followed by a string of words that I'm sure he had never learned from his father or me. When I walked into his room, Larry was sitting on the floor with tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I'll never get my college applications done on time."

"What do you mean? You told me they were all almost done."

"Well, they're not. And they're due in four days."

At this point, when I was ready to get on my high Told You So horse, I remembered this week's assignment—to listen for five minutes. What the hell, why not? At first it was really difficult just to listen to him whine, but after just a couple of minutes it got easy—because I was doing an assignment, I had no other obligations and no other role. I just had to listen. I got into it. In fact, for most of that day, I helped him with his applications and for the most part all I did was listen and take my cues from him. And I could tell that he was grooving on this, which was great because the last couple of months had been tough between us.

A few days later, he had all his applications lined up on the kitchen table—he was showing off for us and looking for last-minute corrections.

"Hey, Mom, the applications want to know your profession. What should I put, teacher?"

A few years ago, I would have said yes; but now with four kids—Larry is the oldest—I'm comfortable with my decision to stop teaching and be a full-time mom. "No. Just put that I'm a mom."

He looked surprised, but then I saw a twinkle in his eyes. "Sure."

A few minutes later, I sauntered over to see what he had written. Next to Mother's Profession he had written: "World's Greatest Mom."

Then I felt his arm around me as he said, "Thanks for helping me with my applications, Mom, and everything else, too. Most of all, thanks for not getting angry at me the other day when I was so behind on finishing the applications."