The sunlight was fading into the horizon, and an eight-year-old girl was skipping up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Her cheeks were flushed from playing, her hair damp with sweat, and a grin stretched across her face.

She knew Sam Uncle would be home.

It was Saturday.

And Sam Uncle always came on Saturdays.

Sam Uncle was in his twenties. Tall and lanky, with thick sideburns and a smile that stretched from ear to ear, he looked exactly like The Rock—or at least, that's what my eight-year-old self insisted.

"Sam Uncle! Do the eyebrow!"

Without fail, he'd raise The People's Eyebrow.

I'd burst into laughter every single time. Why, even the sideburns matched!

The three of us—Sam Uncle, my brother and I—would sit glued to WWE. Back then, The Rock was everybody's favourite.

At least in our little world, he was.

But wrestling wasn't why I loved Saturdays.

I was a chatterbox.

Actually, chatterbox is putting it mildly.

I only needed an audience.

School stories.

Made-up stories.

Movie stories.

Stories that began with one thing and somehow wandered somewhere completely different.

I narrated everything with dramatic voice impressions, exaggerated expressions and enough hand gestures to qualify for a one-girl stage show.

My mother would laugh.

"Give your uncle a break! His ears must be ringing."

And every single time, Sam Uncle would answer exactly the same way.

"No, no... let her talk. Who else will she tell her stories to?"

So I did.

I talked.

And he listened.

Not the half-hearted listening we all recognize.

Not the kind where someone's eyes are on you but their thoughts are somewhere else.

He laughed at the funny parts.

Looked surprised at the surprising parts.

Asked questions at exactly the right moments.

Questions that made me continue, with even more dramatic pauses and excitement.

For an eight-year-old, it felt like every story I told actually mattered.

A few years later, we moved to another city.

I was now thirteen.

Now weekends belonged to Benny Uncle—Sam Uncle's elder brother.

If Sam Uncle wore his warmth on his sleeve, Benny Uncle almost never showed it.

He spoke less.

Smiled less.

But when he smiled, his eyes crinkled first.

Sam Uncle made me laugh.

Benny Uncle made me work.

He insisted on discipline and chores quite religiously.

One day, he mentioned coconut burfi.

I immediately got excited, bouncing around wanting to make it. I loved experimenting in the kitchen.

He bought everything I needed.

Then he made me grate five enormous coconuts.

"Ghiss... ghiss... ghiss..."

The coconut scraped against the jagged teeth of the scraper, falling in soft white flakes.

One coconut.

Two.

Three.

By then my arms had decided they wanted nothing more to do with the body they were attached to.

"I thought you wanted coconut burfi", he said with a completely straight face.

Inside, I was sobbing, my back ached, my hands ached, my legs ached. The coconut scraping looked like a never ending saga.

Outside, I maintained the dignity of a teenager who refused to surrender.

Then came the stirring.

Endless stirring.

Continuous stirring.

So the mixture wouldn't burn.

The mixture had to be stirred until the ghee separated, a slow, tedious process. And then, finally, the mixture was spread onto a steel plate to cool, garnished with slivers of almonds, and cut into diamonds.

I was proud. The burfi tasted heavenly. But my arms refused to feed my mouth.

My arms went on strike for three days afterwards.

Lifting them above my shoulders became an ambitious goal.

My arms never forgave Benny Uncle for the Coconut Incident. Couldn't he have atleast given a heads up?

Apparently, I don't learn from experience.

Because another day I announced I wanted to make a chocolate banana milkshake.

Again, he bought every ingredient.

This time, thankfully, he took pity on me and helped.

Looking back now, I realise they loved in completely different ways.

Sam Uncle listened with conversations.

Benny Uncle listened with actions.

Years passed.

We moved again.

Life became busier.

Visits became fewer.

Then my father passed away.

I was six months pregnant.

After lighting the funeral pyre, I turned away carrying a grief too heavy for words.

And there they were.

My two uncles.

Standing quietly.

Hands folded.

Waiting.

I didn't say anything.

I simply fell into their arms and cried.

They had loved my jovial father deeply.

Nothing needed to be explained.

Some grief is understood without language.

Months later, after my baby was born, they travelled all the way to see us.

They live quite far away.

Yet both came with their families.

As they were leaving, Sam Uncle hugged me.

Then he gently kissed my forehead.

For a moment, time folded in on itself.

To him, I was not a mother of three.

I wasn't the grown woman grappling with the challenges of adulthood.

Somewhere, I was still that little girl with endless stories.

And then another thought arrived., like a moment of realization.

I don't remember a single story I told him.

Not one.

I don't remember the questions he asked.

Or the jokes we laughed at.

The stories have long been forgotten.

But I remember his presence.

I remember his attention.

I remember how he made me feel.

🌿 Looking Closer

We spend so much time worrying about saying the right thing to children.

Finding the perfect advice.

Teaching the right values.

Giving the right answers.

But perhaps that isn't what stays.

Perhaps what stays is the feeling of being seen and heard.

Children don't always remember our words.

But they remember our presence. Our whole-hearted, undivided attention.

Presence has a strange way of outliving conversation.

🧑 Let's Adultify

As children, we searched for someone who would listen.

As adults, we have the opportunity to become that listener.

Not because we have the perfect advice.

Not because we always know what to say.

But because sometimes, people don’t need our advice. They simply need our presence.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

The stories fade. The feeling of being heard remains.

❓Over to You

Who was that person for you?

The teacher who always noticed you?

A grandparent?

An aunt?

A neighbour?

Someone who gave you their complete attention without making you earn it?

Perhaps you don't remember every conversation either.

But you simply remember how they made you feel.

Tell me about them.

It was an ordinary day. One where the sun rises, life moves along at its own pace, and nothing seems out of place.

I was standing in the kitchen, handling the wok deftly, imagining myself to be some wonderful chef while half the ingredients were flying out of it.

Suddenly, the 6-year-old appeared by my side. He arrives a bit too quietly. His hair was wonderfully dishevelled. I would venture as far as to say he often startles me when I am lost in my thoughts.

“My tummy hurts.”

The corners of his mouth were twisted downwards.

He was not his usual, explosive self.

I told him, “Let’s wait a little and see if it goes away. Otherwise we’ll go to the doctor.”

Five minutes later, he came back and said, “The tummy ache is gone... but the person inside me doesn’t feel so good.”

I asked, “Who is inside you?”

He looked at me with complete seriousness and asked,

“Then what is giving me this life?”

That wasn’t where I expected the conversation to go.

My children are 9 and 6 as I write this article. I think that explains a lot. My days slip between a hundred what, why, how, and where questions.

“Why is the sky blue and not pink?” asks the 6-year-old.

“How does it turn orange in the evening?” asks the 9-year-old.

“Why does the dog lick water?” asks the 6-year-old.

“Is time in space different? Then do we stay young in space?” asks the 9-year-old.

On another day, he wonders, “If fossil fuels are made from fossils, then will we also eventually become petrol?”

Whew! You get the idea.

Some days, I answer.

Some days, I Google.

And some days, they ask questions I have never even thought of, and I simply wonder alongside them.

Sometimes the questions are hilarious.

Sometimes they’re plain embarrassing.

Sometimes they make me stop and reflect.

And sometimes the 9-year-old’s questions make me question my authority as a parent

.🌿 Looking Closer

I am yet to come across a child who does not wonder about almost everything.

I can see my baby looking wide-eyed, full of amazement at everything he sees.

The 6-year-old is curious about a lot of things and finds the answers entertaining.

But my favourite age, at least for now, is the 9-year-old. He is in a phase where he has started making connections between different subjects.

Children don’t ask questions simply to gather information. They are trying to make sense of the world.

To them, every experience is new.

So instead of hurrying to fill in the information, let the questions breathe.

Maybe wonder with them.

Let one question lead to another.

Let’s not be too quick to shut them down.

Who knows? Maybe the question will begin with a small plant in your garden and end in the expanse of the universe.

Curiosity sparks thought.

And thoughts can take the mind through different worlds.

Protecting wonder isn’t about giving children more answers. It’s about making sure they never lose the freedom to keep asking questions.

But when does growing up mean we stop noticing and being curious? At what point do we trade the mystery of the cosmos for the certainty of the mundane? When do the “whys” turn into “it just is”?

🧑 Let’s Adultify

As adults, we have stopped looking.

When was the last time you stopped to watch a dragonfly and wondered how it manages to cling to a tiny stone?

Or wondered about something that looks ordinary on the outside, but becomes surprisingly profound when we pause to think about it?

We have started taking everything around us for granted.

Many questions no longer deserve a second thought.

We are busy.

But when we really begin to pay attention, we notice hundreds of tiny moments we had simply walked past before. We stopped wondering.

Today, look at something you’ve seen every day.

Really notice it.

Then ask a why.

A what.

A how.

An inquisitive mind helps us hold on to a little of our childlike wonder. Sometimes, it even leads us back to interests and passions we thought we had forgotten.

.🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

You don’t need every answer.

Sometimes,

“I don’t know...”

followed by

“Let’s wonder together.”

is the best answer a parent can give

❓ Over to You

What question has your child asked that completely stopped you in your tracks?

What question did you ask as a child that you still haven’t forgotten?

✨ A Small Invitation

The next time your child says, "I'm bored," resist the urge to solve it immediately.

Sit beside them for a few minutes.

Ask one question.

Follow wherever their curiosity leads.

You might discover that boredom can be an invotation to a new world of wonder.

One fine Sunday, I was feeling particularly lightheaded. And not in the pleasant, happiness-induced sort of way.

As I floated around the kitchen trying to produce something edible enough to qualify as both breakfast and lunch, the boys found an excuse to entertain themselves with the television.

Between episodes, an advertisement kept appearing for an upcoming movie featuring their favourite cartoon character.

The six-year-old was instantly excited. The more sombre nine-year-old joined in. Soon they had the whole event planned—from where they would sit to what snacks would be served.

I remembered the tests scheduled for the next day and sighed to myself.

After breakfast, I asked them to switch off the TV and study. To my surprise, both of them complied immediately.

Good, I thought. Half the battle is won.

It is worth mentioning that there was no argument about switching off the television.

They both did it without protest.

Looking back, that mattered.

The boundary itself wasn't creating resistance that day. What happened later had a different root altogether.

The six-year-old got to work right away.

The nine-year-old, however, disappeared outside and tarried his time. After repeated reminders, he eventually came in and sat down with his books.

On the surface, it looked like cooperation.

What happened next was something I didn't expect.

At first, he studied.

Meanwhile, the six-year-old was racing through his work at his usual speed. He finished his schoolwork, prepared for his test, and when I put him through a quick written test, he got every answer right.

I had promised him TV if he finished his work.

A promise is a promise.

I handed over the remote.

The six-year-old skipped off happily to the TV room.

And that was when the power struggle began.

The nine-year-old came running, grabbed the remote, and marched back to his books.

The six-year-old's protests were ignored.

This was the sixth remote. The previous five had met unfortunate ends, and I had already declared that no new remote would be purchased. He argued that he was merely protecting the remote.

Lawyer, remember?

I sat beside him to help him study.

Everything I said was met with irritation.

Then protests.

Then tears.

Then a full-blown meltdown.

"What is your problem? I'm studying now!"

The more I spoke, the worse it became.

I tried reasoning and reassuring.

I tried speaking softly.

Nothing worked.

At one point, I remarked that studying would feel much easier if he built the habit steadily throughout the academic year.

That only escalated things further.

"Why are you scaring me?"

That wasn't my intention at all.

Yet somehow every word I spoke seemed to pour fuel onto the fire.

Eventually, I stopped talking.

It became obvious that very little learning was happening.

He would declare that he was finished. I would offer a quick dictation test. He would protest and return to his books.

Round and round we went.

Then a thought occurred to me.

I asked him whether the movie was premiering that day.

He said yes.

And suddenly the situation looked very different.

I realised that some battles are worth fighting.

But not every battle needs to be picked up, fought, and won.

Not today

The tests were not as important as his relationship with studies.

I knew he would bounce back once the anticipation had been fulfilled.

I told him to go watch the movie and return to his studies afterwards.

The meltdown ended almost immediately.

Not gradually… Immediately.

🌱 Looking Closer

Looking back, I don't think the problem was studying.

And I don't think the problem was television either.

The first trigger may have been losing the remote. In that moment, he lost some control over how the afternoon would unfold.

The second was watching his younger brother receive something he wanted.

The third was the fear of missing an event he had been looking forward to all morning.

His body was at the table, but his mind was somewhere else.

Part of him wanted to prepare for his test.

Part of him was already sitting in front of that television, watching the movie he had anticipated, planned for, and imagined.

No wonder everything felt like a struggle.

He wasn’t refusing to cooperate. He was trying to be in two places at once.

🧑 Let's Adultify

Does this happen to adults?

Absolutely.

We sit in meetings while thinking about holidays.

We try to work while waiting for an important phone call.

We attempt to focus while counting down the hours to an event we have been looking forward to all week.

Our bodies are present, but our minds are elsewhere.

Imagine trying to finish an important report while tickets for a once-in-a-year event sit in your inbox waiting to be used.

Or being told to focus on work while everyone else in the house is enjoying something you have been eagerly anticipating.

Most of us would struggle too.

The difference is that we recognise the feeling in ourselves more easily than we recognise it in children.

When adults struggle to focus, we call it distraction.

When children struggle to focus, we sometimes call it disobedience.

Perhaps they are not always the same thing.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

Not every child who struggles to focus is refusing to cooperate.

Sometimes they are simply trying to be in two places at once.

❓Over to You

Have you ever found yourself trying to do one thing while your mind was completely occupied by another?

And have you ever seen that same struggle play out in a child?

🌿 A Note from This, Right Here

This article is part of a small publishing experiment.

Over the coming weeks, I'll be sharing stories, reflections, and practical insights across parenting, growth, motherhood, spirituality, and simple living.

Rather than filling your inbox with every article, I’m working towards a more curated experience—a weekly collection of stories, reflections, and practical insights gathered into a single edition.

If that sounds like your cup of tea, I'd love for you to subscribe and join me.

Subscribe now

This piece began with a story… and a conversation about a child everyone once called “difficult.” As we kept talking, we realized we were both circling the same thought from different places — how quickly children are labeled, and how rarely their inner world is truly seen.

So we decided to write this together.

One of us carries the memory of the child.
The other carries the reflection that followed.

And somewhere between those two pieces lives a reminder that behaviour is often a language long before it becomes a label.

We’re glad you’re here to read it.

— Sheeba & Sheenu

The Story As I Remember It — Sheeba

You must have heard of them — the “difficult” child.

They exist with a hundred labels attached to them before you even meet them.

Naughty. Bad. Misbehaved. Troublesome.

Their reputation reaches you long before they do.

He was that child in our family.

Honestly, he still is. Even today, his stories are the kind family members bring up during gatherings with equal parts horror and disbelief.

He is one of my cousins, Raj*(name changed).

As children, most of us only knew him as chaos.

He fought constantly. Hit other children. Bit sometimes. Created scenes wherever he went. Adults would warn each other before family functions if he was around. My own brother had once been at the receiving end of his aggression too. He bit my brother hard enough to make him bleed.

And to my brother’s credit, he grew into one of those quiet, gentle men who carefully catch moths that wander into the house and release them back outside.

That contrast has always struck me.

To understand how deeply my cousin carried aggression inside him… he used to keep a cane in his room. He would hit his own palms with it repeatedly because, according to him, it made him feel less pain when teachers beat him at school.

At the time, all we saw was behaviour.

And honestly, he was terrifying sometimes.

But now, as an adult, I cannot think about that little boy without also thinking about the home he was growing up inside.

His father lived with deep suspicion and paranoia, convinced his wife was being unfaithful though it was not true. Their house carried constant tension — accusations, emotional instability, threats of suicide, fear that never really left the walls. His mother herself was soft-spoken and fragile, barely able to hold herself together.

Eventually, his father acted on those threats.

And through all of this, there was a little boy growing up inside that atmosphere.

At the time, most people only spoke about how “bad” he had become.

Very few stopped to wonder what it feels like to be a child carrying that kind of emotional weight without having the words for it.

Because children do not always express pain through sadness.

Sometimes pain comes out as aggression.

As biting.

As screaming.

As control.

As becoming the loudest child in the room because their inner world already feels unsafe and unpredictable.

And yet, strangely, he was always soft with me.

Even when he fought everyone else, there was a gentleness in the way he approached me that I never forgot. I still do not know why. Maybe children instinctively move toward the people around whom their nervous system feels safest.

Years passed.

He did not grow into an easy life.

Honestly, his life is still difficult in many ways. There is a heaviness in his eyes now. A kind of regret. He never really found stability — not in work, not in relationships, not in family life. He and his wife are estranged now.

And that is what makes me think about childhood even more deeply now.

Because sometimes the child everyone calls “problematic” is carrying something invisible.

Sometimes the most difficult child in the room is also the most emotionally overwhelmed.

Sometimes behaviour is not just behaviour.

Sometimes it is grief with nowhere to go.

Fear with no language.

A nervous system living in survival mode.

This does not mean hurting others should be ignored or excused. Boundaries matter. Safety matters.

But I think understanding matters too.

Because every now and then, life reminds me that behind some children’s hardest behaviours are stories adults cannot see from the outside.

One day, in between conversations, as adults, sitting with my brother and me, Raj quietly observed, almost as if he were talking about someone else...

“Whenever I was coming to a gathering, I would hear people whisper, ‘Raj is coming, Raj is coming’. I still remember how I hated that. Yet, somehow it felt powerful at the same time. Somehow, I liked the attention it brought to me”.

My brother and I remained uncomfortably silent as he turned to us, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

What Stayed With Sheenu…

Raj’s story sat with me for days.

Because how quickly we decide what a child is — before we ever stop to ask what they’re going through.

Bad. Naughty. Difficult. The labels come so fast. And underneath every single one of them is a child who is still, quietly, trying to figure out how to exist in a world that is loud and confusing and doesn’t always go the way they expected.

That’s a lot. Even for us adults, that’s a lot.

And when things don’t go the way they want — when the feelings are too big and the words aren’t there yet — what comes out isn’t always pretty. But it is always something. A message. A reach. A way of saying I don’t know what to do with this.

What they need at that moment isn’t a label.

It’s a hand. A calm voice. Someone to sit beside them in the mess and say — I see you. Let’s figure this out together.

That’s it. That’s the whole job sometimes.

✦ Small shifts, if this stayed with you:

When a child hurts others, pause before the label. Raj was called naughty, bad, troublesome — before anyone asked what he was carrying. The label arrived before the understanding ever did. When our child bites, hits, screams — before we name what they are, can we get curious about what they feel?

A child practicing for pain is telling us something. He kept a cane in his room. Hit his own palms to feel less when the teachers hit him. That image is hard to sit with. But children find ways to survive what they can’t say out loud. If child is doing something that doesn’t make sense — it might be making perfect sense to their nervous system.

The home they grow up inside lives inside them. Raj didn’t arrive difficult. He arrived into accusations, threats, fear that never left the walls. The chaos outside became the chaos inside. This isn’t about blame — it’s about remembering that our children are quietly absorbing the emotional air of our home, every single day.

Some children are safest with the people who don’t need them to be different. He fought everyone. But with her, he was soft. Children’s nervous systems find the people around whom they can exhale. We don’t always have to correct or guide. Sometimes just being someone they don’t have to perform for — is the whole gift.

The difficult child and the overwhelmed child are often the same child. He wasn’t born difficult. He was a little boy carrying grief with no words for it, fear with no language, a world that felt unsafe — and his body expressed it the only way it knew how. When we see a hard child, we’re often looking at a hurting one.

This does not mean hurting others should be ignored or excused. Boundaries matter. Safety matters.

But I think understanding matters too.

Because every now and then, life reminds me that behind some children’s hardest behaviours are stories adults cannot see from the outside.

Save this for your next hard moment:

A headless duck lay in the corner of our courtyard.

Once upon a time, it had been a bright yellow toy with a cute movable head that bobbed when switched on. It was very much alive and thriving in the imagination of my boys.

But years ago, when my second son was four and deep in his “Explorer” phase, curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to know exactly how the duck’s head moved.

The investigation was thorough and the outcome was permanent.

Since then, the poor duck had lived in perpetual exile—headless, motionless, and mostly forgotten.

Until one ordinary afternoon, on a sudden whim, my nine-year-old (the family’s resident Lawyer, always ready to argue his case with impressive conviction), picked up the duck. For reasons known only to him, he decided it had a new purpose.

The Explorer appeared almost instantly to reclaim what he clearly believed was his discovery.

Within seconds, the courtyard transformed into a wrestling ring. There was grabbing. Shouting. Hitting. Kicking.

Logic and negotiation were gone with the wind. Faces twisted in fury. Ownership claims were no longer being debated; they were being physically defended.

I rushed in to separate them, one child in each hand, silently thanking my Karate training. Grunting... as they tried to push past me!

At that moment, there was no Lawyer and no Explorer. Only two miniature WWE wrestlers battling fiercely over a decapitated plastic duck.

And if you are a parent, you already know the most bewildering part. The duck was never the real issue.

To an adult, the whole thing looked ridiculous. I remember shouting above the noise, “This was completely useless until five minutes ago! And now you both want it?”

A broken toy with no head, abandoned in a corner, had suddenly become the most valuable object in the house.

But to children, the object often stands for something much bigger.

Ownership — “That’s mine.”

Fairness — “Why does he get it?”

Control — “I had it first.”

Attention — “Notice me.”

History — “I discovered this.”

The headless duck was simply the stage on which much deeper needs were being acted out.

Sibling relationships are intense because children are growing up side by side, each with a different temperament, a different personality, and a different idea of how the world should work.

They are still learning how to handle frustration, negotiate boundaries, and share space with other human beings. So when one child suddenly wants something, no matter how useless, it instantly becomes precious. Its value lies not in the object itself, but in the fact that someone else wants it.

(Adults do this too. We just package it more elegantly. Think of the long queues for the latest iPhone or Labubu release.)

In the middle of these moments, logic is rarely useful.

I could shout, “It’s just a headless duck!” as many times as I liked. No one was listening.

Because once emotions take over, children are no longer arguing about logic. They are defending their sense of justice, autonomy, and belonging. That is why the first task is regulation, not reasoning.

My job in that moment was to keep bodies safe.

Sometimes that means physically separating children. Sometimes it means saying very little. I tried staying neutral and naming what was happening.

“Okay, you both want the duck.”

When everyone was a little calmer, I suggested taking turns. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t. This time, it didn’t.

So I postponed the issue and asked them to find something else to do.

There were protests, naturally...

But my children know that when I set a boundary, I usually follow through.

And protests, like most childhood storms, pass more quickly than they arrive.

A little while later, both boys were outside again, peacefully sharing a JCB, digging mud, and constructing something very important.

The duck had been forgotten. Again.

That is the gift hidden inside sibling conflict.

When handled with calm and consistency, these noisy, exhausting moments become practice grounds for emotional regulation, perspective-taking, negotiation, and repair.

The goal is not to eliminate all conflict.

The goal is to help children learn how to move through conflict safely and respectfully.

Of course, there are times when parents need to step in more firmly... especially when one child is repeatedly hurt, intimidated, or consistently overpowered.

Conflict is normal, but bullying is not.

But most everyday sibling fights are less about the object in question and more about a much deeper question that every child carries within them.

Do I matter too?

I was curious how this idea might look in a family with only one child, so I invited fellow writer , who writes at , to share her perspective. Her reflection beautifully shows that while sibling relationships are one powerful school for these lessons, they are not the only one.

---

A Reflection from Sinem Halli

While reading this, I kept thinking about something slightly different. I only have one child, so I do not see daily sibling battles at home. But I still see how much children learn from moving between different positions in a group.

In his Montessori classroom, my son is often one of the older children. That is part of the setup there. Younger and older children share the same space, so they naturally learn from each other.

There, I watch him become more patient, more responsible, and more aware of others. In basketball, the picture changes. He becomes one of the younger ones.

He has to wait, adjust, follow, and find his place among bigger children.

What strikes me is that both roles teach him something important. Being the older one gives him confidence and care. Being the younger one gives him humility, resilience, and perspective.

So even without siblings at home, I keep seeing the same truth: children grow through these shifts in position. They learn not only from getting what they want, but also from not getting it, from leading, from following, from being strong, and from feeling small.

Sibling relationships may be one powerful school for this. But they are not the only one.

Any space where a child sometimes gets to guide and sometimes has to learn can teach the same deep lessons.

---

What I love about Sinem’s reflection is how it widens the lens.

Whether children are growing up with siblings, classmates, teammates, or friends, they are constantly learning how to share space with other human beings—how to lead, how to follow, how to wait, how to lose, and how to find their place.

Parenting siblings means stepping into scenes that are both absurd and deeply meaningful.

One moment you are separating two miniature WWE wrestlers fighting over a decapitated plastic duck. The next, you are teaching lessons about fairness, frustration, boundaries, and what it means to live alongside other human beings.

The duck may be broken.

But the opportunity for learning is very much intact.

He came back with two ₹1 chocolates… and ₹8.

My mother-in-law teased him for not knowing basic math and sent him back. The shopkeeper had mistakenly not returned ₹10, and the child had to walk all the way again… for the sake of two small chocolates.

Months later, he wanted to buy noodles. I gave him ₹150 and told him he could buy biscuits too if he liked. On the way, he saw a dog, got scared, and dropped a ₹100 note without realizing it.

At the shop, he didn’t have enough money.

He came back home—and was met with scolding again. That day, in between tears, he vowed, “I will never go to the shop again.”

It’s easy to see these moments as small mistakes. But for a child, they are not small.

The real reason he wanted to go to the shop wasn’t chocolates or noodles.

He wanted to feel big. He wanted to feel capable.

Around this age, children begin forming a sense of identity. They start seeing themselves as individuals who can do things on their own, almost like adults.

But reality doesn’t match that imagination immediately.

They make mistakes.

They feel embarrassed.

And when those moments are met with shame, something inside them quietly shuts down—to protect their self-respect.

That’s what I saw that day.

Children naturally want responsibility.

Not because we ask them to… but because it makes them feel important, capable, and trusted.

And when we support this gently, age-appropriately, it builds something powerful:

Confidence.
Independence.
The willingness to try again.

We can begin small.

A five-year-old can be the “Official Light and Fan Inspector.”

They can help set the table, clear it, or fold small clothes.

As they grow older, the responsibilities can grow with them.

By eight or nine, even buying small things from a nearby shop becomes a lesson… not just in money, but in decision-making, awareness, and confidence.

A few days later, I handed my son ₹100 and ₹20 again.

He looked at me, confused.

“Buy noodles or whatever you want,” I said.

He hesitated.

“Why are you trusting me with money again?”

I told him, “Mistakes happen. What matters is that we learn, correct ourselves, and move forward.”

He went.

He came back.

This time, with noodles… and a quiet smile.

“Shall I make it today?” he asked.

I nodded.

I helped with the measurements… and then stepped back.

He poured, stirred, and cooked.

That day, he served noodles to his amma and his little brother.

And somewhere in that small kitchen moment, he served himself something far more important — confidence.

And the beginning of believing, “I am capable”.

We as parents are already overwhelmed by life and responsibilities. Often, our minds are crowded with everything we have to juggle. We are tired.

And then our child finds one silly, random thing to throw a tantrum about. It may be dosa instead of idli, why the omelet is not perfectly round, or the shirt you ironed is not what they want to wear. It can feel trivial, unreasonable, and unfair.

As usual, we try to bargain. The child stays adamant, and we lose our temper and shout. The child cries, things escalate, and a perfectly good day is now ruined for everyone.

What happened here was a power struggle between the parent and the child. In the end, the child feels their needs were ignored. And if we give in to the tantrum, the pattern will definitely repeat because the child learns that tantrums lead to positive outcomes. The parent, in turn, is dogged by frustration: “Why is my child like this?” and guilt: “Did my bad parenting lead to this?”

Over time, the child fears correction, the frequency of tantrums increases, and parent and child are perpetually at war. Some children withdraw and hide their feelings.

When a child throws a tantrum, shift your view. Instead of thinking the child is blaming you or being unreasonable, remember this is a tiny brain in development that does not yet know how to express feelings. Anything a child is saying is in the moment, not directed toward us. They are not trying to make us uncomfortable or intentionally tense.

First, name the feeling. For example, if it is about a food item, be calm and say, “I know you are upset it is not idli today. Mamma knows you like idli, but this is all I could do today. I will make it for you next day”. Hug if they allow. Speak softly. We are the adult here. In most cases, we can see an almost immediate effect when the feeling is named. If the tantrum is not resolving, rather than shouting, remove yourself from the situation after saying, “This is not reasonable. I am not going to discuss this anymore,” and step out of the room. This is far better than engaging in a shouting match.

Now, if we already shouted in the heat of the moment, it happens. We are human. No need to take a guilt trip. Children are surprisingly forgiving. An apology will teach them that it is okay to make mistakes, and that saying sorry can repair the relationship. We are learning our way through parenthood.

Calmness takes a little practice. No parent is perfect. We do not need to be perfect. What we need is the willingness to accept and repair. Repair builds trust.

My 9-year-old had been struggling with his studies.

And honestly, I was handling a zillion things… so studies took a backseat.

After the baby, I was home full-time –

So we slowly started building a study rhythm.

And something shifted.

From “I hate studying”

to

“Amma, come… I have to study.”

“I love studying with you.”

It felt like we had found something.

Then came exams.

Vacations.

Results.

He failed in one subject.

But strangely… I wasn’t disappointed.

He had passed everything else well.

Even scored highest in a subject he used to fail in.

So we decided calmly—we’ll improve this too.

And then came a small thought:

It’s vacation… shouldn’t he get a break?

That small break?

Took us right back.

Resistance.

Crying.

“Just 5 more minutes…”

Back to square one.

Old me would have panicked.

Pushed.

Maybe even scolded.

This time, I didn’t.

Because I’m starting to see something differently—

Children don’t lose habits.

They fall out of rhythm.

So we’ve just… started again.

A little encouragement.

Short study windows.

Some jokes.

Some laughter.

And slowly, the rhythm is coming back.

I know one day soon, he’ll come to me again and say,

“Amma… come, let’s study.”

And that… will be the quiet win. ❤️