4 Listening to Our Children

Listen earnestly to anything your children want to tell you, no matter what. If you don’t listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won’t tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.

As all parents know, your children do not stop being your children when they reach an age that designates them an adult. We joke that our role as parents is just to keep them alive and well until they can make their own decisions. We hope we have achieved that, knowing full well we have made mistakes along the way. Sound familiar?

We survived the terrible twos when tantrums and frustration and the learning of the words “But why?” meant that they peppered every conversation. We handed them over to an education system and hoped its philosophy married with our own. We hoped that by the end of their education, we would present to our community well-rounded young adults. People who could make their own way in the world with a passion for life, both academically and socially. We did what we as parents needed to do, to get them through their teenage years. I will say no more on this subject.

Along these roads we listened as the trials and tribulations of growing up changed from what seemed small concerns such as their best friend not playing with them to bigger concerns such as the breakup of relationships. It’s that last conversation we hope our child tells us, but both of them really matter. If we have listened to the small things, truly listened, then it is much more likely that our child will tell us of the big things, primarily surrounding relationships—both friendships and romantic ones—which in my opinion are the most important parts of their lives as they get older.

I thought that my husband and I had done an OK job with our three children—we came out the end with everyone speaking to each other, which is a huge achievement for any parent. The lines of communication remain open and we are very much part of each other’s lives. As adults, and two of them parents themselves now, my children tell me I was too lenient on them and I should have been tougher—they are not going to let their children get away with what they did! See what I mean? There is no right or wrong way to listen to your children, just your way. It remains to be seen how my children do things “better.” I’m just delighted we have the sort of relationship that enables them to feel free to criticize, though it is always said with laughter and much remembering of the times they think they got away with something because I “caved.”

When our firstborn son was a baby, someone gave me a parenting book called Pajamas Don’t Matter by a Kiwi writer named Trish Gribben. It became my bible for determining what disagreements I would stand firm on and which ones I would acquiesce to. Was it worth the distress for both of us if one night, my child said he/she didn’t want to wear their pajamas to bed? Did it matter? Was anyone hurt by a naked toddler sleeping soundly, thinking he/she had won a battle with their mother? The psychotherapist Philippa Perry writes about the importance of letting your child “win.” That old adage about sparing the rod and spoiling the child was based on the idea that if you let them “get away” with something, they’d become terribly entitled adults. But Perry points out that a child who never feels able to exercise their will might become a submissive adult. At worst, they might fall naturally into the role of victim, find themselves open to being bullied, both as children and later as adults. It’s important, she says, for children to learn to assert themselves in a situation where they feel they are “right” and you can see the logic of their argument.

Now, extrapolate that thinking out to all the thousands of requests you face as a parent. The one ingredient needed to parent in this way is to listen, fully listen, to what is being asked so your response is always a fair one, as long as it is also safe. That became my only criteria in giving in to a request I know many of my peers would say no to. I liked to think of it as a conversation between us—something we worked out together, rather than a situation in which I was the one “in charge,” the judge who determined what would happen with a yes or no.

Lights out at 7 p.m., another fifteen minutes needed to finish a chapter of a loved book, no problem. No one hurt. Negotiate the fifteen minutes and don’t let them extend it to thirty the next night, or the next.

Around the age of eight or nine, one of my sons decided he didn’t want to sleep in the dark. We could find no bad experience, nightmare, or fear that made him frightened, he just wanted the light left on. For a few nights we left it on, only to turn it off when he was asleep. He would wake in the night, feel the need to wake us, and ask that we put the light back on. All attempts to tell him to put it on himself and get back into bed were ignored. It was our job to turn his light on at 2 a.m. Now, I’m someone who loves her sleep, so we left his light on. This continued for several months until the night he said he now wanted it turned off … In the end, our son sorted it out for himself.

There is one battle every parent goes through, year after year, sometimes monthly, weekly, daily. The inevitable “I don’t like that” when presented with food. Once, and only once, did my husband force our firstborn to eat something he didn’t want to—he got it down. Briefly. Husband wore it a short while later. I have no answer to overcoming this challenge, watching my three-year-old granddaughter ask for pasta for every meal, with the odd piece of Nutella toast. My daughter was despairing that she was not getting sufficient fruit and vegetables. Someone advised her to make smoothies instead—she now drinks her fruit and veg.

I am going out on a limb here, but this statement does come from solid, empirical research, my own experience, and that of several friends. Teenage boys are easier to listen to and to understand, and their problems and worries easier to empathize with than teenage girls. My first two children are boys, and I thought I had knocked it out of the park, getting them through the teenage years. Of course, they tell me differently now. When our daughter reached that milestone, it was a whole different ball game. I struggle to keep the smile from my face as I watch her lock horns with her three-year-old daughter, already acknowledging she is not like her easygoing, carefree brothers.

Karma.

The NHS in the UK has provided simple advice on talking to your teenager, which can be found here: www.nhs.uk/conditions/stress-anxiety-depression/talking-to-your-teenager/. I love their opening statement because it relates to every teenager I have met: DO NOT JUDGE. Assume they have a good reason for doing what they do. Show them you respect their intelligence and are curious about the choices they’ve made. And PICK YOUR BATTLES. If they only ever hear you nagging, they will soon stop listening.

When asked if I am proud of my achievements as an author, I always say yes—I am—but that it is overwhelming and sometimes difficult to process; that I consider myself very lucky indeed to have met Lale Sokolov and the direction my life has taken because of him. In fact, what I am most proud of is the three adult children I have raised and who I now share with their communities, their partners and families. I am proud of not only their achievements and the way they parent their own children, but that they, as siblings, continue to be a strong support to each other.

When The Tattooist of Auschwitz was published in Europe I went on a book tour, which took me away from home for over a month. My daughter was pregnant when I left. A week later, she and her husband told me over a Skype chat that she had lost the baby while I was in the air, flying away from my family. She deliberately didn’t tell me until she was out of hospital and at home recovering—medically, at least; the emotional recovery would take a lot longer. However, it was what she told me about the support from her two brothers during this difficult, shattering time that wrapped itself around my heart. On being admitted to hospital with a “threatened” miscarriage, on Easter Sunday, she called them. They left their families and immediately went to her. They stayed with her, allowing her husband to go home and check on their two little ones. They sacrificed being with their partners and children to be there for their sister. That my little girl immediately reached out to her brothers, knowing how they would respond, and their subsequent response, fills this mother with more pride than anything that has gone before in our lives.

Fast-forward seventeen months and I am in the delivery room with my daughter and son-in-law when their newest little man entered the world. Fast-forward again four months from that joyous moment and the importance of listening to not just what is said, but what is not said came crashing down on me. I had ignored, not seen, not interpreted the body language of this new mother, my own daughter.

Being the mother of three young children was never going to be an easy ride, but my strong police officer daughter knew how to handle it—didn’t she? Her family thought she could. Yes, she was tired, but what mother of a newborn isn’t?

I went away again, this time on a seven-week book tour to support publication of my second novel, Cilka’s Journey, when my new grandson was six weeks old. I flew away with some trepidation and a niggling fear about my daughter’s health, but with hope that the brave face masking exhaustion that I’d been witnessing would pass.

Two weeks before the baby was born I had gone with my daughter and her husband when they signed a contract to buy a plot of land and build a home—their dream home. At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, she was designing the layout of their new home. A week after she gave birth, she was choosing tiles, taps, light fittings, carpets, stove, shower fittings, and on and on it went. How many downlights do you want in the kitchen, the lounge room, the bedrooms? What color brick would you like on the exterior? I cuddled a crying baby, changed his diaper, and watched as my tired, emotionally drained daughter went about creating a home for her family.

My trip over, I returned to a thriving little man and older siblings but saw no improvement in my daughter. She was still well, still doing everything, still being the perfect parent, but something was missing. Most worryingly, I noticed a change in her behavior toward her two older children. An extremely dedicated and patient mother, she was now snapping at them for the slightest misdemeanor and ignoring their constant pleas to play with them. It also seemed to me that she was going out every day. There was always so much to do and so little time to do it in. I noticed her breastfeed her little boy and not look at him nor engage with him, with his flailing arms and hands smacking her on the breast, tugging on her clothing. I said nothing.

Christmas was fast approaching. Always the happiest time in my little girl’s life—nobody loves the festive season more than she does. Rituals had been copied from her own upbringing; others created for her family. Decorations were to be hung, the tree lit up and decorated well before the designated date of December 1—she always wanted maximum time to enjoy this season. Not so this year. Yes, the tree went up, decorated over several days, not the all-at-once of the past. The children were asked what they wanted from Santa and their responses automatically bought because it required no thought on her part. Her husband was tasked with wrapping them.

She would say to us: “Can I just have one day at home with my baby, in my pajamas, to get to know him?” All too often, we said we’d make it happen, but then found a reason for her to dress, put her makeup on, and go out.

It sounds weird, but even her baby conspired against her. He never complained, rarely cried, smiled and giggled and slept while being pushed around mall after shopping mall. If only he had objected. Made it clear to his father and grandmother he wanted to stay at home, sleep in his cot fully stretched out, not folded like a pretzel into his stroller.

The signs were there. It took a photo for us to get the message, hear the cries for help we were not listening to. I went with my family to the graduation from kindergarten of my beautiful five-year-old grandson. I had the family cuddle in tight to take the happy snaps I wanted them to have to remember this day. I snapped away. I looked at the photos and there it was: on what I know would have, should have, been one of the happiest days of my girl’s life, the forced smile and dead eyes looked back at me.

The next day, she refused to shower, to get out of her track pants, to put makeup on. And the next day, and the next. Her husband didn’t know what to do and called me to come around and “talk to her.” He had been doing everything that needed to be done to feed, clothe, bathe, and dress their two older children. His wife had fed the baby when needed.

“I’m broken,” she said, when I asked her what was wrong. “I have been screaming out for help for weeks and no one is listening,” she added. “Couldn’t you see? Did I have to spell it out for you?”

As her husband and I scrambled to right the wrong of not being there for her, not hearing her unspoken cries for help, my mind raced back in time—not years, just days, a few weeks. Why hadn’t I been listening at one of the most important times in my daughter’s life, the time when a family needs space, things done for them without being asked, given the emotional environment to bond as a larger family, with each family member finding their place in their new world?

Baby steps we are calling it as we all work together to put my broken child back together again. Already we see for every two steps forward, one back always follows. It is how we recognize this backward step and how we respond to the needs of this new mother that will determine how long it will take for her to smile again at her children, to engage with them and feel the joy once again that they bring to her life.

In my job at the hospital, I got to speak to countless parents of very sick children. It was always a source of comfort to me when they told me how their relationship, particularly their communication, changed dramatically. I wondered why so often it seemed to take a tragedy or traumatic experience for parents to listen and learn from their children. I recall one mother of a teenage daughter with a terminal illness tell me how her daughter had overheard her mother saying to her father outside her room, words to the effect of, “She’s dying.” Her daughter told her what she had overheard and said, “Mum, it only takes moments to die, the rest of the time we are living.” This simple statement is something I will never forget. A young girl with wisdom beyond her years reminding us to live, or as Lale Sokolov would say, “If you wake up in the morning, it is a good day.”

In the beautiful song “What A Wonderful World,” Louis Armstrong describes how others will learn more than he could ever know. He is referring to the next generation. When my seven-year-old grandson wants to have a conversation with me about dark matter and theories of gravity, I don’t look away, roll my eyes, and seek out one of his parents to “get me out of this.” That he has achieved at such a young age what Armstrong sings about both delights and scares me. I explain to him that I don’t know anything about dark matter and ask him to teach me what he knows. Whether his concept aligns with the experts isn’t important—he wants to tell me. I want to hear, if only for the engagement with him. When his father found him ruining all their coat hangers, twisting them into designs and creations only he could visualize, and observed, “That’s a lot of coat hangers,” the response was, “You need a lot of coat hangers to achieve greatness.”

I have discovered there is a profound difference in how I listened to my children when they were young and how I now listen to my grandchildren. I’m sure every grandparent will agree: Is it simply that we have more time and space, because we are not the stretched, stressed full-time parent? Probably. But for me there is also the realization that these young people see the world differently from me. They are subjected to a wider range of global influences than either their parents or I was at their age. I also realize that listening to them process and explain what they think they know challenges me to do the same, to think about what I know and don’t know about the world. And I love it—what’s not to love? These conversations with our children and grandchildren are often the most appropriate time to tell them stories of your own experience. Compare differences. Learn from each other.

When my children were young, more often than I care to admit, I found myself using the words, “When I was your age…” My childhood experiences were so utterly different from theirs—different country, for starters. Different times. I was born at the end of an era, in a rural setting, where children were seen and not heard, where discipline was valued above all, and in which the concept of a child having “feelings” didn’t really exist—certainly, we were not, as I’ve outlined earlier, listened to. My children were aware of this and were fascinated by how differently I had chosen to parent them, but that didn’t stop at least one, and sometimes all three, miming playing a violin and humming the tune to the television series The Twilight Zone. They still do it to me now. I didn’t listen then, and it still doesn’t stop me from dispensing words of wisdom now they are adults. They expected me to listen to them; I honored that, and in return I feel I have a right to be heard. And I believe that I have something to offer—as we all do. I have lived a life and have experience of so many things, so many instances where I feel I did things the right way—or the wrong way. What I believe is that my children and I have been in dialogue since the day they were born and I hope that we will continue this way for many years to come. The dynamics shift as the years pass, but the conversation continues to flow.

When they were children, these conversations happened frequently over dinner. It was important to us that each evening, we sat down together for dinner, no matter how busy everyone was, what kind of a day my husband and I had had: it was a coming together as a family unit. With three children, a ten-year age gap between them, and a typically dominant middle child, I looked for ways to make this an enjoyable experience for everyone. I swapped our rectangular dining table for a round one so that there was no fighting over who sat at the head. I wanted the conversation about each other’s day to be equal—no talking over each other, no one person dominating. By accident, a supermarket green pepper mill became known as the “talkie thing.” When someone placed it in front of their plate, we all listened to what they had to say. Eventually it would be picked up by another sibling as they claimed their right to speak and we all listened. As parents, we subtly controlled the length of conversation by taking the talkie thing, asking another child about their day, and placing it in front of them. No one ever abused the talkie thing, everyone was to be listened to and respected for what they wanted to say.

And that brings me to the word respect. How can we expect our children to respect us and what we say if we don’t respect their opinions, their concerns and demonstrate this by listening to what they have to say? I didn’t and don’t always get it right, but I try. Also, perhaps particularly when they were teenagers, I didn’t always agree with what they were saying. But I listened and made sure that they knew that I was doing so—those active listening skills apply at whatever age your child is. That is not to say everything your toddler says to you is worthy of an in-depth conversation—in many instances a small acknowledgment is all that is required. They will often move on from what they have been telling you faster than you can comprehend what it was they were saying. Often, they grow frustrated by their failure to get you to understand them—at which point their grasp of language fails them—and this can be tricky. Equally, as frustrating as it can be when you feel the time is right to tell them something deep and meaningful—at any age—you must remember they themselves may not have learned the importance of listening. Think back to my grandson’s frustration at his sister refusing to listen to him.

Often children have wisdom beyond their years. They are this way because of the experiences and circumstances in their lives and because they are little humans, with all of the intelligence that we have—I suspect people sometimes forget this. In any situation I found challenging with my children, I used to try to remember what I’d been like at their particular age and how I’d felt about my parents’ reaction to something. Teenage high jinks? We’ve all done it. Lying to our parents—where’s the adult who never did that as a young person? In fact, show me someone who doesn’t tell the odd white lie, the odd sin of omission. We all do it. A desperate desire for privacy, for independence, for freedom? Same again. Walk in your children’s shoes and you’ll find it easier to see it their way and to work out how to respond.

It’s also essential to remember that we can’t shield our children from all negative, traumatic events—we can’t protect them from everything, no matter how much we’d like to—and that these events will also shape their thinking, their vision of the world, their personalities.

Often at the funerals for stillborn babies I attended in the course of my work at the hospital, siblings would be brought along with the parents. On many occasions I witnessed the parents supporting each other as a young child looked on. Lost, forlorn, overwhelmed by the chapel with its sad row of small white coffins, and by dozens of strangers also struck down by grief. One of the social workers in attendance would always be on hand to swoop down on a distressed child to provide comfort, supporting parents to envelop that child into their circle. On many occasions, with the permission of the parents, the social worker would take the sibling back into the chapel after the service and explain why they were there, on this, the first Wednesday of the month. The child might be invited to light a candle for the brother or sister they never got to meet. Training, compassion, simply being decent human beings enabled these wonderful professionals to make a difference.

I know we are told to talk to children in an “age-appropriate” manner, but we must be alert to the children whose age does not marry up with their life lived. Only by listening to them, truly listening to them, can we help them process their thoughts, identify concerns that may arise if their feelings are not validated and acknowledged.

I was lucky to have a great-grandfather and a father who listened to me and whom I loved to listen to. Sadly, my mother, as I have said, very seldom made herself available to me to talk to, nor felt the need to talk to me in any meaningful way. This situation did not change when I became an adult, and a mother myself. I resolved to be the opposite with my own daughter—and to take every opportunity I could to engage with young people.

Growing up, my brothers and I took the lead from our parents. However, as adults, we talk and share our lives constantly. Other than my immediate family, it will always be one of my brothers I now turn to when I need someone to listen to me. They in turn reach out to me. When I look in the mirror, I realize it is my turn to be the older, sometimes wiser, person in the lives of not only the young people in my life, but any young person with whom I am privileged to speak.

The Tattooist of Auschwitz has been published in a Young Adult edition, something of which I am extremely proud. Visiting schools and speaking to teenagers is for me pure joy. To be in a room with one hundred or so fourteen-year-olds who pay me the respect of listening to me intently is truly humbling. I know they have been listening because of the amazing questions they ask. As they gather around me at the end of my talk, instead of going to their next class, I send up a quiet “thank you” to Lale Sokolov for having told me his story, so that I can pass it on to a new generation.

It is not only older people whose stories have had a profound impact on my life. Many years ago, I came into contact with a teenage boy in the hospital with a terminal illness. To pass the time during treatment, he played games on a handheld gaming device. I was told he had mastered all the levels of the games he had. A quick phone call to the company who designed and sold the games resulted in an offer of two new unreleased games. A young man, a designer from the company, turned up in the social work department to deliver them. We got chatting and he told me he wanted an excuse to leave the office, so had decided to hand-deliver the games rather than mail them. Instead of taking them from him, I arranged for the social worker looking after the teenager to take the visitor to the ward so he could hand them to the patient personally.

What transpired from this meeting between a terminally ill patient and a game designer was a friendship of profound beauty. Several times the designer turned up in my office on his way to the ward to thank me for putting him in touch with this boy. He told me about his privileged life, that he had never known children could get so sick they might die. He met the boy’s family and other teenagers in the ward. His life had been changed, he told me, by having his eyes opened to the tragedy of young people spending long periods in the hospital, undergoing painful treatment. He was overwhelmed by their positive attitudes to their illnesses and the hope they and their families clung to for remission, for recovery. He himself had opened up to the patients, shared information about himself, showed his own vulnerability. He had become a regular visitor, so at ease with the patients that they played practical jokes on him. He remained connected to the teenager, to the end, and their friendship was a great comfort to them both.

Practical Tips for Listening to Children

Here are some thoughts around listening to children that might be useful. They apply not only to our children, of course, but to any young person we might encounter. The essential thing is to be an active listener: pay attention, respect the child talking to you, respect what is being said, no matter how trivial or unimportant it seems to you. I can only repeat: if you don’t listen to the small stuff, you may not be told the big stuff.

Time—that’s the secret to listening to a child. And taking the time to listen to a child when they are little is the key to a close and secure relationship, which pays dividends during the more challenging years of adolescence. I understand that it’s not always possible to drop what you are doing in the midst of a busy life, but if you want your child to know how important they are to you, if you want to give them confidence and self-esteem, you need to find the time to listen to them.

When my three kids were small, I was a busy working mother. In between work, school pickup, cooking tea, supervising homework, and throwing the clothes in the wash there wasn’t a lot of time for those one-to-one moments. I knew that, the kids knew that—we managed. But if I sensed one of them had something on their mind, and there was no immediate opportunity to sit down to listen, I used to find the best thing was to ask them to help me with a routine task. It’s surprising what a child will tell you when you are folding laundry together, or watering the garden, or setting the table.

Teachers often single out a child they are concerned about and ask them for special help—preparing a display of work, for instance, or sorting out the books in a classroom. Not only does this make the child feel important, it’s an opportunity to allow them to speak without addressing their concerns directly. You can do something like this at home. The key thing is to keep the focus on the job at hand, however trivial, to create a neutral safe space—and not to make direct eye contact. If the child falters or lapses into silence, you can always return to the work you are doing to give them time to gather their thoughts and confidence: “Now, how many more pins do I need here?,” “We’ve finished the towels, shall we pair the socks?”

I realize that domestic chores don’t cut much ice with most teenagers, so how do you manage then? If you’ve fostered a relationship of trust with your child from an early age, you should have a firm basis on which to negotiate the trickier years of adolescence. However, as teenagers widen their social circles and begin to rely on their peers rather than their parents for emotional support and validation, it can be challenging to keep the conversation going. However hard it is, and however many unrewarding grunts you get in response to a simple question like “how was school today?”—keep going! The work you put in now will pay dividends in the relationship you build with them as adults.

Try to create a situation in which your children speak, and you are “present” to listen. For us, it was the table and the talkie thing that worked for the whole family, but there are other ways of getting a child or teenager alone in a situation in which they might speak. The car is good—you are together, but you are both looking straight ahead. For six years I drove my daughter to her high school every morning. We had to drive past the police academy and would see the recruits training outside. Often, we commented on the force as a profession. My daughter joked that she liked seeing them running around the track or out on the street, that being an athlete, she could do that part of the job. Six years after leaving school, working, and traveling, she was sworn in as a police officer.

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