Two simple words

This morning, I was sitting on the couch between my two boys and playing a dopamine-fueled game of “Which animal is cuter” on YouTube. 

The boys were loving it, climbing on the backs of our couch, sometimes over me and laughing. My younger son, William (4 years) began putting his feet on my face, in my eyes, and then trying to stick his toes into my mouth. 

I gently said, “Honey, you can smush your feet here or here,” pointing to my thigh or my bottom. Without fussing or reacting, he continued the smushing in an area of my body that didn’t trigger my nervous system. The problem was solved by using two simple words: “You can…”

Four years ago, I didn’t know about Declarative Language or how shifting the way I said sentences and managing the energy behind them would transform my communication with my PDA son.

Before I read the Declarative Language Handbook, I would have used the following phrases:

Stop kicking me in the face.

Don’t put your feet on me.

Don’t do that.

While there is nothing inherently wrong with those phrases, a PDA child or teen will perceive imperatives like the sentences above (or “commands”) as threats that will trigger an immediate threat in the survival part of their brain and shut down any possibility of communication or connection.

The conversation stops before it has begun.

This can lead to IMMENSE frustration for parents, especially if they don’t understand the *deep why* behind their child’s rejection of their communication, and often take it personally as a lack of emotional attachment, lack of respect, or that they are a bad parent (you are not!).

Over the years, and with tons of practice, a different way of communicating with both my children has become second nature and helped me transform my relationship with both.  

Let me give you an example of how starting a sentence with “You can…” instead of my conditioned or natural response as a parent, can change the outcome.

Before:

My PDA son walks around the house repeating “I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.”

Me: What do you want to do? (Direct question à loss of autonomy à threat à immediate shutdown of communication)

Him: No. Stop Talking… (slight pause)… I’m BORED! (and then destruction of objects or equalizing against William begins..)

Me: (frustration and desperation) OK, Let’s go on the trampoline! (imperative)

Him: No. (cycle repeats).

Me:

After:

Him: I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.

Me: You can go on the trampoline.

Him: No. (preference-based, not knee-jerk threat response).

Me. I can make you a “Dopa- menu” with pictures. (Menu of dopamine-friendly activities).

Him: Ok.

Me:

Draws pictures of ideas and “stews” (leaves out near him as visual cue) next to him.

Him: Ok, let’s go on the trampoline.

Me: (Trying not to show excitement)

The difference is subtle, but the outcome is vastly different.

In the first scenario we both ended up frustrated, angry, and activated. Stuck where we started. In the second, I offered possibilities in a way that didn’t shut down his thinking brain, I could receive real information as a parent to support problem-solving and get to a collaborative solution.

Of course, it doesn’t always turn out this smoothly.

Yet instead of attaching to the outcome in the moment, I try to view every interaction as an opportunity to keep my son in his thinking brain AND to build the relationship. It accumulates, builds over time, creates a virtuous cycle rather than a vicious one. And yes, it takes energy, and effort, and executive functioning. When I first started really examining my language and how I used it, my brain would get scrambled and I would say non-sensical things or try and talk to my son and nothing would come out.

Luckily this actually supported our relationship because he saw me as fallible and full of human foibles. He thought it was hilarious that I couldn’t get my words out and it actually accommodated the “perception of equality” part of his brain because I wasn’t “above him” as the parent. I made mistakes too.

Like learning a new language, it can become second nature with practice.

One final example from this morning to bring more nuance:

I came down from upstairs to sit on the couch with the boys and I realized I didn’t know if our service dog had been fed yet. Most of the time I try and notice whether there are crumbs of dog food left in his bowl, and not ask my son “Did you feed Doggo?” because the direct question triggers the threat response and is usually met with a growl.

Instead of asking a question, I offered, “I can feed Doggo.” He responded calmly and without activation. “Oh, mama, I already fed him.”

I got the information I needed, and we sustained regulation and relationship.

I hope me sharing the “anatomy of a typical morning” is helpful to break down a simple concept that can REALLY shift things powerfully in your home.

This weekend I invite you to experiment with the following beginnings to your sentences:

• You can…
• I can…
• We can…

See what shifts! I would love to know.