We Encouraged Our Daughter to Have a Strong Voice, and Now She Does

Raising a lawyer

It starts at 6:55 a.m. with a hair tie in the puppy’s mouth. I chase him around the house until he’s cornered. We have exactly five minutes to get out the door. Otherwise, my daughter will miss her bus, and I’ll have to drive her 40 minutes to school.

I’ve been mentioning the time for a while now. Finally, I enter my daughter’s room. The bed isn’t made. She’s not wearing socks. She hasn’t brushed her teeth or tied up her long Covid-style hair. I hand over the hair tie.

Me: “This was in Leo’s mouth. Can you please make your bed, brush your teeth and tie up your hair? We have five minutes.”

Tween: “I don’t have time to do my hair.”

Me: “You’ve had plenty of time. You just used that time to do something else. How hard is it to make your bed?”

I pull the duvet over the sheets, demonstrating my competence at bed-making.

Tween: “We’re going to be late. I’ll do my hair on the bus.”

Me: “I want it done before we leave.”

Tween: “Why?”

Me: “Because no one wants your hair flying in their face on the bus.”

Tween: “Ok, but we’ll be late.”

Me: “If we’re late and you miss your bus, you’ll miss school. I’m not driving you all the way there.” (She knows I’ll drive her all the way there.)

Tween: “Why can’t I do my hair on the bus?!”

Me: “Because it’s not nice. You do your hair at home, or at least in a bathroom.”

Four minutes to go…

Tween: “I can do it at school in the bathroom?”

Me: “No! You leave the house ready for school!”

Tween: “No one cares if I tie up my hair on the bus.”

Me: “I care. Before you know it, you’ll be 25 and doing your makeup on the subway.”

Tween: “What’s wrong with that?”

Me: “It’s gross. Let me be clear: You may never do your makeup on the subway!”

And on and on and on it goes. You’re probably rolling your eyes, and you’d be right. By engaging as I do, I’ve trained my child to argue back. But then it gets worse. I give in. I let her walk out the front door without tying up her hair.

Indulgent Parenting?

It started when my daughter was a toddler. I gave her way too much say. I cringe to watch videos of my younger self patiently asking a three-year-old if she’d prefer an apple or an orange.

“What would you like, sweetheart? You can choose.”

Seeing these old videos, I feel like Bette Midler in Beaches in that scene where she’s watching herself being interviewed on TV. About to make an ass of herself in the interview, she yells in vain at the screen:

“Don’t do it, fool, don’t do it…”

“Just make her eat the apple!” I want to scream at my own video self. “Don’t let her choose! Tell her who’s boss!”

We modern parents are great believers in giving our children a voice. We listen attentively. We encourage them to think for themselves and to make their own decisions. These are valuable life skills. Why not teach them early?

But then our kids use their increasingly confident voices to argue for every little thing they want. By earnestly engaging with them on matters big and small, we lead our children to see their arguments — however ill-formed — as equal to our own. We’ve given them a seat at the negotiating table, which they haven’t yet earned.

My daughter is meeting a friend at the park. She puts on her favorite Alice in Wonderland sweatshirt, but it has a big stain on it. I tell her to change tops. She needs to know why. It’s not enough to say it’s dirty. We must debate why it matters if children wear dirty clothes.

In an unusual twist, I actually get my way this time. She agrees to change. But then puts on a crop top and a thin cotton jacket even though it’s freezing outside. A debate over whether she needs a coat ensues. I should have let her wear the dirty sweatshirt.

Endless Negotiations

Sometimes I get so frustrated by the constant need to justify my decisions, I blurt out, “Because I said so!” To which my daughter laughs. I don’t recall laughing when my mother said this.

Every day, I swear to myself that I will not engage in these irritating debates. I will make a decision and stick with it. But then I say something — wear a coat or no phone on our walk — and she objects, and either one of two things happens. Sometimes I find that she’s right, and so I back down. Other times, she wears me down.

My husband says that by backing down, I’ve trained her to keep arguing. I know he’s right, but I also can’t help but think it’s partly hereditary. My husband is a trained lawyer and a former junior debater — the same as my brother. It’s in my daughter’s very nature to argue. One day, she’ll make a fine lawyer. In the meantime, it’s just me and my feeble path-of-least-resistance nature up against her increasingly powerful take-no-prisoners one.

Fortunately, our daily debates are rarely heated. Neither of us is particularly temperamental. But these discussions are annoying and exhausting. Every request, no matter how small, is met with resistance. Sometimes the only way to win is by employing the nuclear option, as I often do during our nightly debate over why kids can’t keep smartphones in their rooms.

Tween: “Why can’t I have my phone in my room?”

Me: “Because it will keep you up.”

Tween: “No, it won’t. My friends get to keep their phones at night.”

Me: “None of your friends get to keep their phones at night.”

Tween: “Emily does.”

Me: “Not true.”

Tween: “Call her mom.”

Me: “I’m not calling her mom. It’s late. Must we have this conversation every night?

Tween: “But it makes no sense. I never touch it.”

Me: “Then why do you care if it’s in the room?”

Tween: “I care that you don’t trust me!”

Me: “UGGGHHHHH!”

Tween: “Mom?”

Me: “You can’t have it in your room at night! Hand it over now, or there’s no phone use tomorrow.” (My version of the nuclear option.)

She points to a book on her desk. The iPhone is slipped underneath. She smiles and snuggles under her covers. I kiss her and tuck her in. She clearly enjoys sparring with me, but it’s making me increasingly uneasy.

Here we are in her precious last pre-teen year, and it seems like all we do is bicker. I think about how to break the cycle before it’s too late. Today we’re arguing about a stained Alice in Wonderland sweatshirt and whether she needs to tie her hair in a ponytail. Before long, we’ll be fighting over her curfew and body piercings and alcohol. Home shouldn’t be a battleground. The outside world will prove challenging enough.

To The Bus

On the drive to the bus, she brings up the hair thing again — nervy, given her hair still hangs untied down her back. She requires more clarification on why hair must be done at home. I tell her if she mentions the subject again, I’m driving straight back home and she will miss school. (After weeks of Covid homeschooling, this is not an appealing option for either of us.) Of course, she keeps mentioning it. And, of course, I keep driving to the bus stop.

We miraculously make it there on time. Just as we pull up, I see she’s fixed her hair. A long blond ponytail hangs neatly down her back. She looks at me and smiles. “Your hair looks good,” I say.

I have this incredibly confident, resilient, and good-at-heart kid. I can’t help but think this has something to do with us giving her a voice.