When a child can’t swim, we don’t punish them for struggling.
If a child can’t swim, we don’t offer them stickers for staying afloat in the deep end. We offer them something that helps, like floaties, or we let them hang on to the wall. Sometimes, we let them stay in the shallow end until they feel confident.
We don’t just leave it at that, though. We teach them. We show them how to put their face in the water and blow bubbles, how to kick and tread water. We hold them, promising them they are safe, until they can do it alone. We don’t worry that if one kid has floaties, all the other kids will want them. We don’t take the floaties before they are ready, saying, “Well, they’re going to have to learn someday.” And we don’t worry that if we hold children up and promise them they are safe, they will never want to learn to swim.
When they falter, if they can’t make it across the pool, and they go down, a lifeguard jumps in. We don’t leave them there to teach them a lesson, even if they were misbehaving when we taught them to tread. And when they surface, stressed and spluttering, if in fighting for what feels like their lives, they flail and smack the lifeguard or spit pool water on another kid, we don’t yell that they should be more in control. We don’t decide that they are “violent.” We don’t “safe restrain” them.
When children (and adults) are overwhelmed or panicking, it can feel like drowning, like you are sinking to the bottom of the pool, spluttering and begging for help. Sometimes, you think you are begging for help, but adults see flailing and hear shrieking. Sometimes you get help. Sometimes the people you’ve been told are there to help offer only angry words or a lecture on respect or a physical restraint.
If a child can’t swim, we don’t chalk it up to “behaviour.” We don’t introduce them to a very calm, very nice lady with a folder full of stickers who will try to convince them that the next time, when they are drowning and in fear of their life, instead of flailing and sputtering, what we who have promised to hold them safe really want them to do is to take a deep breath.
What if we believed that every child was already trying their hardest to learn other things too? What if we agreed to interpret children’s behaviourally flailing and failing and yelling as cries for help, like we do in the pool? What if, instead of punishing or labeling, we worked to help them not panic, or to uncover what is making it hard and to offer children the accommodations they need?
The Huddle for Families helps parents and communities try things this way, to see “bad” behaviour as a cry for help, and to problem solve what children need to feel safe, competent, and at home. If your child is struggling, and you want a different way too, come on in.
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