Science Minded

Fire alarm aren't the problem.

They alert us to a problem.

The same is often true of children's behaviour.

When children hit, scream, refuse, throw, run away or melt down, our attention is naturally drawn to the behaviour itself. We want the behaviour to stop.

Sometimes this leads us to focus on consequences, rewards, scripts and behaviour management strategies.

The difficulty is that behaviour is often a symptom, not the cause.

A child who lashes out may lack the skills to handle frustration.

A child who refuses may feel overwhelmed.

A child who melts down may be exhausted, stressed, hungry, anxious or struggling with expectations that exceed their current capacity.

When we focus exclusively on stopping the behaviour, we can miss the information the behaviour is trying to communicate.

This doesn't mean having no boundaries. Children need clear, consistent limits.

It means pairing boundaries with curiosity.

Instead of only asking, "How do I make this stop?"

We can also ask, "What need or skill is this behaviour pointing me towards?"

Because when we address the fire, the alarm becomes a lot quieter.

References:

Greene (2014); National Scientific Council on the Developing Child. (2004);
Siegel & Bryson (2011)

One of the biggest mistakes we make with young children is assuming that because they can talk, they should be able to consistently act on what we say.

A four-year-old has only been using sophisticated language for a couple of years.

A five-year-old? Not much longer.

Yet we often expect them to hear an instruction, stop what they're doing, shift their attention, remember the request, organise their body and follow through immediately.

That's actually quite a complicated task.

What makes this even harder is that children don't learn primarily through explanations.

They learn through relationships, observation, imitation and experience.

Think about how children learn to talk in the first place. We don't sit them down and teach them grammar rules. They learn by listening to the people around them, watching what they do and joining in.

Behaviour develops in much the same way.

This is why children can often tell you the rule but still struggle to follow it.

Knowing what to do and being able to do it are two very different things.

So when we find ourselves repeating:

"Put your shoes on."

"Pack away the toys."

"Come to the table."

over and over again, it can be worth asking a different question.

Have I only told them what to do?

Or have I shown them?

Children are apprentices in being human.

They are constantly watching how we speak, move, respond to frustration, solve problems and treat other people.

Our modelling is often far more powerful than our explanations.

This doesn't mean children don't need boundaries or expectations. They absolutely do.

But sometimes the most effective way to teach a behaviour is not another reminder.

It's showing them what it looks like.

Because young children often learn more from what we consistently do than from what we repeatedly say.

Comment below - What's something you've caught your child copying from you recently?



References: Bandura (1977); Diamond (2013)

Recently my 6-year-old announced that he hated the sun and wanted it to disappear forever.

His reasoning?

The sun was in his eyes.

Thankfully, I was able to pause and catch that it wasn't really about the sun.

It was about his frustration, discomfort and a feeling that was bigger than the words he had available to describe it.

So instead of arguing with him, I responded to the feeling underneath.

Then, once he was a touch calmer, we ended up learning what would happen if the sun disappeared.

(For anyone wondering, we'd all be dead. My son's biggest concern was whether the cars would still work. When I pointed out that functioning vehicles would probably no longer be our biggest issue, he laughed and said, "Oh yeah!")

The whole interaction reminded me of something important:

When children say "I hate you", they're often doing exactly the same thing.

They're not delivering a carefully considered judgement of our parenting.

They're expressing a feeling.

When we stop arguing with the words and start listening for the feeling underneath, we can respond to what the child actually needs.

And that's usually where the conversation changes.



References: Hoffman, Cooper & Powell (2017); Siegel & Bryson (2011); Delahooke (2019);
Gottman & DeClaire (1997)

Recently I was in a Kindergarten room and observed one of the most amazing things. An educator encouraging 4 and 5 year old children to lie on the floor and use the ground to support their elbow while writing their name.

It might seem small, but developmentally, it was a HUGE and an incredibly thoughtful adjustment.

At this age, many children are still developing the core strength, postural control, shoulder stability and fine motor coordination needed for drawing and writing tasks. When we ask children to sit upright at a table and write, they are often managing multiple physical demands at once before they even get to the actual learning task.

By lying on the floor with the elbow supported, children gain physical stability through the ground. Their body no longer has to work quite so hard to hold itself upright, freeing up more energy and control for the writing itself.

This educator I observed demonstrated this beautifully with a little boy I’ll call Leo. Leo was sitting up and having a hard time writing his name. He seemed disheartened and dejected. She encouraged him to try it again but lying down with the ground supporting his elbow. The educator then showed him the difference between the two attempts. It was obvious. His letters when lying down were clearer, more controlled and easier to recognise.

But what mattered most was that she helped Leo notice the difference himself.

This shifted the moment from adult-directed correction to child-centred learning. Leo wasn’t simply being told how to do it “properly.” He was being supported to understand his own body, his own learning and what had helped him succeed.

That kind of reflective noticing builds far more than writing skills.

It builds confidence. Agency. A sense of “I can do this.” From there the skills feel possible.

This is what strong developmental practice often looks like in early childhood.

Not harder, stricter, not pushing children faster.

A deeply understanding of children and thoughtful adjustments to the environment to support their success.

References: Haan (2015)

Something happens in our brain when our child melts down.

We want to fix it. Fast. So we say the first thing that comes out. And often, that first thing, however well-intentioned, makes everything harder.

I've done it. Most of us have. And it doesn't mean we're doing it wrong, it means we're human, and our own nervous systems are responding right alongside our child's. When someone we love is distressed, our brain registers it as a threat. We move to action. We want the distress gone, for them and if we're honest, for us too.
That's not a character flaw. That's biology.

But it's worth knowing which phrases tend to backfire, because once you can see them, you can start to catch them.

❌ "Calm down."
Telling a flooded child to calm down is like telling someone drowning to swim better. They would if they could. A dysregulated nervous system cannot follow verbal instructions, it needs a regulated nervous system nearby to co-regulate with.
Try: "Let's slow down your breathing, then we can talk."

❌ "Just breathe."
Same problem, different packaging. Telling a flooded child to breathe is like handing that same drowning person a map. They need co-regulation first, not instructions.
Try: Modelling slow, exaggerated breaths yourself. Their nervous system will often follow yours, even when words can't reach them.

❌ "You're fine."
This one dismisses before it connects. Even when we mean it kindly, even when it's technically true, it communicates something the child hears loud and clear: your experience isn't real. And that lands hard.
Try: "This feels hard. I'm here."

❌ "There's nothing to be scared of."
Fear doesn't respond to logic. Not in children, not in adults. You can't think your way out of a felt sense of threat, and neither can they.
Try: "This feels scary for you. I'll keep you safe."

❌ "It's not a big deal."
It is a big deal. To them, right now, it is the biggest deal. Minimising it doesn't shrink the feeling, it just quietly teaches them not to trust you with the next one.
Try: "This really matters for you. I get it."

And then, if you can, try to imagine it from their perspective. Not who's right and who's wrong. Simply what feels real for them in that moment. That shift alone can change everything about how you respond.

The goal in a flooded moment isn't compliance. It's safety. Once they feel safe, everything else becomes possible.

I'm curious about your experience with this. Which of these phrases is hardest for you to resist in the moment? And is there one that surprised you, that you hadn't thought of as dismissive before? I'd genuinely love to hear from you in the comments.

Carollo et al. (2023); Siegel & Payne Bryson (2012); Porges (2011)

The relationship we have with our children doesn’t just shape their behaviour.

It quite literally shapes their brain.

And I don’t mean that metaphorically.

From the very beginning, our children’s brains are developing in the context of relationship. The repeated, everyday interactions we have with them become the architecture their brain is built on. The way we respond when they’re overwhelmed, the way we repair after a hard moment, the way we stay close even when behaviour is big or confusing… all of this is doing something.

It’s wiring their brain.

It’s building the systems that help them regulate emotions, manage stress, feel safe in relationships, and eventually think, learn and problem-solve.

And here’s the part I think many of us need to hear.

It’s not about getting it right all the time.

It’s not about never losing patience, never feeling frustrated, or always knowing exactly what to do.

The brain isn’t built through perfection.

It’s built through patterns.

Through enough moments of being responded to.
Through enough experiences of feeling safe.
Through enough repairs after things go wrong.

That’s what shapes development.

Not the one moment we wish we could take back.
But the hundreds of moments where we show up again.

When our children are dysregulated, their nervous system is leading. In those moments, they’re not accessing logic or reasoning in the way we might hope. They need us to help bring their system back to a place of safety first.

That’s what co-regulation is.

And over time, those repeated experiences of being supported in that way become the foundation for their own ability to regulate.

This is why connection isn’t separate from “discipline” or “behaviour support.”

It is the foundation of it.

So I’m really curious to hear from you.

What feels hardest about staying connected in those moments?
When your child is pushing back, melting down, or not listening… what’s the part that challenges you the most?

And on the flip side, have you ever noticed a moment where staying connected actually changed how things played out?

Let’s talk about it 👇

It’s the weekend. The routine shifts, the pace changes, and often… the behaviour does too (for children and adults alike).

It's not uncommon to see:

More pushback.
More big feelings.
More moments that make us want to jump straight to correcting.

And it makes sense.
We’re often more tired, less structured, and holding a lot ourselves. Our own nervous system is closer to the edge too.

So when things escalate, it can feel urgent to fix it quickly.
To stop the behaviour.
To get things back on track.

But here’s the reminder we all need (myself included):

Connection comes first.

When our children are overwhelmed, dysregulated, or pushing against a boundary, their nervous system is leading, not their logic.

And when the nervous system is in charge, correction doesn’t land.

Not because they don’t care.
Not because they’re ignoring us.
Not because they’re being deliberately difficult.

But because, in that moment, they can’t access the part of the brain that could use what we’re saying.

They’re in protection mode, not learning mode.

This is where connection becomes the most powerful thing we can offer.

Connection helps their nervous system settle.
It communicates safety.
It tells them, “You’re not alone in this.”

Connection sounds like:
“I can see you’re really upset.”
“That was hard, hey.”
“I’m right here.”

It can look like:
Getting low and into their space
Softening our tone, even when it’s hard
Staying close instead of stepping away
Choosing curiosity over quick judgement
Injecting a little humour to shift the energy
Engaging playfully to bring their system back online

It doesn’t mean we drop the boundary.

It means we momentarily step out of “teaching” and into “regulating together.”

We remind our child, through our presence, that our relationship is steady and strong enough to hold both them and the limit.

Because when children feel safe and understood, they are far more able to:
• Hear us
• Trust us
• Work with us

And over time, this is what actually builds their capacity to handle boundaries without falling apart.

Correction still matters.
Boundaries still matter.

But without connection, they often escalate the very behaviour we’re trying to reduce, because the need underneath hasn’t been met.

So this weekend, if things feel hard:

Slow it down.
Notice your own state.
Lead with connection.
Then guide.

That’s where the real shift happens.

Discussion question:
When things escalate at home, what do you notice happens in your own body first, and how might that be shaping whether you move toward connection or correction?

Goodness of fit is a simple but powerful idea from child development.

It’s about how well a child’s natural temperament (how they’re wired) matches with what the environment expects from them, and how the adults around them respond.

Not all children experience the world the same way. Some are more sensitive, some are more active, some take longer to warm up, some adapt quickly. None of these traits are “good” or “bad” on their own. They just are.

Where things get easier or harder is in the fit.

A good fit looks like:

❤️an adult noticing who a child is and adjusting expectations
❤️a slower-to-warm child being given time instead of rushed
❤️a highly active child having space to move rather than being expected to sit still for long periods
❤️a sensitive child being supported gently through big feelings, not pushed to “toughen up”

A poor fit looks like:

💔expecting all children to behave the same way
💔seeing temperament as a problem instead of a difference
💔lots of power struggles, overwhelm, or repeated “challenging behaviour”

When the fit is good, children feel understood. Their nervous system settles more easily. Behaviour improves, not because we’ve controlled it, but because we’ve reduced the mismatch.

And importantly, goodness of fit doesn’t mean letting go of boundaries.

It means holding the boundary and adjusting how we support the child to meet it.

So instead of:
“Why is this child so difficult?”

We shift to:
“What does this child need from me so they can succeed here?”

That shift is where so much change happens.

References: Thomas & Chess (1977); Thomas, Chess & Birch (1968);
Rothbart & Derryberry (1981); Rothbart (2011); Woodhouse, Scott, Hepworth & Cassidy (2020)