What I Learned When I Finally Listened to My Child

 

 

 

There was a moment, not so long ago, when my child stood in front of me, eyes wide, heart open, and said something that I almost missed.

I was distracted, half-listening, nodding while scrolling through emails. “Uh-huh,” I murmured, the universal response of a multitasking parent. But this time, something about their voice pulled me back. I looked up and saw disappointment flicker in their expression. That tiny pause, that hesitation, told me everything.

I had missed something important.

Later that night, after I tucked them in, their words echoed in my mind. And I realized: I hadn’t really listened in days. I had answered, corrected, reminded, but not truly heard them.

It stung.

That night, I promised myself something simple but powerful: to stop. To slow down. To look my child in the eyes and give them my full attention when they speak.

The next morning, I put my phone down when my child came into the room. I listened with intention. They told me about a dream they had one where we were flying on a giant bird made of books (don’t ask). But their eyes lit up when they realized I was really there, really with them.

That smile? That sparkle? That’s what we miss when we don’t listen.

And the truth is, kids know when they’re being half-heard. They learn to stop sharing. They learn to retreat. They learn that their voice isn’t important.

But the opposite is also true.

When we listen—really listen—they bloom. They tell us more. They feel seen, heard, valued.

Listening doesn’t require us to agree with everything. It doesn’t mean we give in to every request. But it does mean we show up fully. We honor their experience. We teach them that their thoughts matter—even if they’re five and talking about flying book birds.

That lesson changed everything for me.

Not just as a mother, but as a person.

And since then, I’ve been trying—imperfectly, but trying—to live a little slower. To pause. To make space for small voices and silly stories and big emotions.

Because children are always speaking. And when we finally listen, we often hear more than we ever expected

 

The Small Decisions That Make Big Kids: Why Autonomy Matters

 

 

I didn’t always know how important autonomy was. Like most parents, I started off trying to keep everything under control: meals, bedtime, what to wear, how to behave, what to say and not say. But somewhere along the way—probably during one of those long, exhausting days when my daughter refused to wear anything but a tutu with rain boots—I realized something important. She was trying to tell me something. Not with words, but with her choices: “Let me be me.”

And isn’t that what we all want?

That small moment became the beginning of a shift for me. It made me start asking a question that now sits at the heart of my parenting: What are they learning when I give them the space to decide? And just as importantly, what are they learning when I don’t?

We often think of decision-making as something that comes later in life, when they’re older, maybe in high school or adulthood. But in reality, it starts much earlier—far earlier than we’re often comfortable with. When we allow our kids to make small decisions early on, we’re not just making life easier (although sometimes it does help reduce tantrums); we’re planting the seeds of confidence, resilience, and responsibility.

Letting go doesn’t come naturally to many of us. I know it didn’t to me. I was raised in an environment where obedience was valued over expression, and “because I said so” was a sentence I heard often. So, the first time I gave my son the chance to choose what book we’d read before bed, or asked him if he wanted broccoli or carrots with dinner, I caught myself wanting to control the outcome. But I learned to step back—and what I saw was a child who stood a little taller, smiled a little wider, and became a little more invested in his own day.

Autonomy doesn’t mean chaos. It doesn’t mean they do whatever they want. It means creating a safe structure where their voice matters. For example, in our house, bedtime is non-negotiable. But my kids get to decide what pajamas to wear, what stuffed animal comes to bed, and what book we read. Those are their decisions. And that matters.

When kids are empowered to choose, they begin to develop trust in themselves. They start to understand the cause and effect of their actions. They become problem-solvers. And perhaps most importantly, they feel seen and respected.

There’s a moment that stays with me. My daughter was invited to a birthday party, and I was convinced she’d want to wear the sparkly dress she usually loved. But that day, she chose jeans and a hoodie. It wasn’t what I would’ve picked, but I said nothing. And at that party, she laughed, ran, climbed, and played without adjusting her outfit once. Later that night, she said, “I was comfy, Mom. I’m glad I picked it.” And I smiled. Because her comfort mattered more than my vision of how she should show up.

Fostering autonomy is not about raising kids who are independent of us. It’s about raising kids who are confident in themselves. Who knows their preferences. Who feel secure enough to speak up and kind enough to listen. It’s a daily practice, a series of small decisions that lead to something much bigger.

So now, when I’m faced with the temptation to decide for them, I pause. I breathe. I ask myself, is this a moment where they can learn who they are? If the answer is yes, I step back.

And every time I do, I see them becoming who they’re meant to be.

 

This article is inspired by the chapter “Fostering Autonomy: Letting Them Make Decisions” from my book, “What You’re Really Teaching Your Kids (Without Even Knowing It?)”.

 

 Marie A. MacArthur.

How Much is Too Much? Parenting in the Digital Age.

 

I remember when “screen time” meant sitting in front of the TV on Saturday mornings with a bowl of cereal and a cartoon marathon. These days, screens are everywhere,pockets, backpacks, wrists and the lines between learning and zoning out are blurrier than ever.

One afternoon, I found my daughter watching a video of someone else playing with toys plastic figurines, a tiny dollhouse, the whole deal. I asked her, “Don’t you want to go play with your own toys?” She looked at me, puzzled. “But this is fun too.” That moment hit me like a splash of cold water. Was she learning? Was she being entertained? Was she just…passively absorbing content?

That’s when I started to ask myself: how much is too much?

The Modern Dilemma As a mom, I understand the temptation. You’re cooking dinner, folding laundry, responding to work emails and giving them a screen buys you a moment of peace. No judgment here. I’ve done it, too. Many times.

But as I saw my kids spending more time swiping and less time imagining, more time tapping and less time talking, I began to worry. Not in the panicky, “throw all the devices away!” kind of way. But in the “something doesn’t feel right” kind of way.

The Real Risk Isn’t Just the Screen The problem isn’t the screen itself. There are incredible resources for kids online story apps, educational games, science experiments on YouTube. The real risk is when screens become a substitute for everything else: play, conversation, boredom, exploration, emotions.

Children need moments of boredom to spark creativity. They need face-to-face conversations to develop empathy. They need to look out the window and wonder, to get frustrated and learn how to sit with it, to play pretend and invent their own worlds, not just watch someone else’s.

When screens take over those moments, we’re not just entertaining them. We’re replacing key developmental experiences.

A Shift in Our Home I’m not a tech expert. I’m a mom, learning every day. And here’s what we’ve started doing:

Tech-Free Zones: No devices at the dinner table or in bedrooms. Those spaces are for connection and rest.

Time Limits with Purpose: We use screen time for something specific, like learning a dance, exploring a science video, or calling Grandma, not just scrolling.

Digital Detox Days: Sundays are mostly unplugged. We read, walk, bake, build forts, complain (yes), and reconnect.

It hasn’t been perfect. Some days they resist. Some days I do. But over time, something changed. The whining became less. The imagination came back. The conversations grew deeper. And the silence real, present, peaceful silence returned.

Screens Are Tools, Not Babysitters Technology isn’t going anywhere. And honestly, I don’t want it to. It’s part of the world our kids are growing up in. But maybe that’s the point if it’s going to be part of their world, then we have to teach them how to live with it, not get lost in it.

And that starts with us.

So, if you’ve ever handed over your phone just to get through a grocery line, or relied on a tablet so you could have five minutes of quiet, I see you. You’re not failing. You’re surviving.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to ask ourselves how we want screens to fit into our family’s story. Because our kids are watching. And what they see in us will shape what they seek for themselves.

 

Marie A. MacArthur. 

 

The Night I Almost Missed the Moment That Mattered Most; "Because It had been a long day".

 

 

 

The Night I Almost Missed the Moment That Mattered Most It had been a long day.

One of those days where the laundry sat untouched, the dinner was cereal, and the dishwasher beeped three times before I actually opened it. I was running on empty and the only thing I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world for a while.

I had just tucked my daughter in when I heard it:

“Mom… can you read me just one more story?”

I paused.

Every part of me wanted to say, “Not tonight, sweetheart.” I had dishes to do, emails to check, a thousand things left undone. I was already halfway out the door.

But something, maybe the way her voice softened, maybe the way her little hands held onto her blanket, stopped me.

I turned back. And I read.

It wasn’t a special story. Just the same one we’d read twenty times. But something about that night felt different.

Halfway through, she reached out and rested her tiny hand on mine. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

That quiet touch said everything: “I feel safe.” “I feel loved.” “I’m glad you stayed.”

And in that moment, I realized I almost missed it.

I almost traded that quiet, powerful connection for dishes and to-do lists. I almost let the fatigue of the day rob me of a memory I now cherish.

 

Parenting isn’t made of big events. It’s made of small choices. The choice to stop.

To listen.

To sit.

To stay for one more story, one more question, one more hug.

These tiny decisions, seemingly insignificant, are the ones that shape their childhood… and our motherhood.

I’m not perfect. Most nights I still say, “Not tonight.” But every now and then, when I remember what really matters, I pause. I sit. I read.

Because one day, she won’t ask anymore.

And I want to know that I said yes as often as I could.

Final message: If you’re tired tonight and you say no, it’s okay. But if you can… say yes. Even just once. It might be the moment that matters most.

 

Confessions of a Tired Mom Who Tried to Hide in the Bathroom (And Got Caught)

 

 

I have a confession to make.

No, I didn’t forget picture day. I didn’t let my child eat cookies for breakfast (at least not recently). This is worse.

I hid in the bathroom. Voluntarily. For no legitimate reason… other than pure survival.

Let me paint the picture for you.

It was one of those days. The kind where you wake up tired, spill coffee on your shirt, step on a LEGO barefoot, and realize the lunchbox is still in the dishwasher,  from yesterday. The kind of day where everything feels a little louder, stickier, and more chaotic than usual.

And in the middle of that storm of socks, spilled juice, and a chorus of “Mooooom?”, I cracked.

I grabbed a bag of pretzels (don’t judge me), tiptoed to the bathroom like a ninja, locked the door, and sat down on the closed toilet seat. Just to breathe. Just for five minutes. Maybe three.

I didn’t bring my phone. I wasn’t scrolling. I wasn’t texting. I just… sat. In silence. Pretzels in hand, eyes closed. A moment of rebellion in the kingdom of toddlers.

It lasted approximately 42 seconds.

That’s when the little fingers appeared under the door.

Then came the knocking.

Then came the dramatic gasps.

And finally:
“MOM! Are you pooping?!”

Ah, the poetry of motherhood.

I sighed. Deeply. Crunched my last pretzel. Flushed the toilet out of theatrical obligation. And emerged from my fortress of solitude.

 

Why I Hid (and Why I Don’t Regret It)

Let me be clear: I love my kids. Fiercely. But sometimes the noise, the demands, the constant multitasking, it all collides into one messy wave, and suddenly your brain short-circuits because someone just asked you where ants sleep for the eighth time while also yelling that the cat drank from the toilet.

Moms don’t get lunch breaks. We don’t clock out. Our coffee is rarely hot, and our alone time usually involves folding laundry in silence.

So yes, I hid in the bathroom.

And yes, I got caught.

But what I also got? Was a reminder.

 

You Can’t Pour from an Empty Mug… or Eat Pretzels in Peace

Parenting is full of moments where we give and give and give time, energy, snacks, attention, explanations, patience (and more snacks). But if we never pause to refill our own cup, whether with silence, a snack, or an uninterrupted bathroom break, we run on fumes.

That small stolen moment? It was my attempt to breathe. To be still. To remember that I’m not just “Mom,” I’m also me. And taking five minutes to honor that doesn't make me selfish. It makes me human.

Maybe my kids didn’t understand it in the moment (they were too busy trying to wedge a drawing under the door), but one day, I hope they do.

I hope they see that sometimes the strongest parents are the ones who know when to pause.

 

The Takeaway (Besides Keep Pretzels in Your Hoodie Pocket)

If you’ve ever hidden in the car, the closet, or under a blanket fort that you accidentally stayed in longer than necessary… I see you.

You're not alone.

You're not failing.

You're not doing anything wrong.

You're just tired. And taking a moment doesn’t make you less of a mom—it might just make you a better one.

So, here’s your permission slip.
Hide in the bathroom.
Eat the pretzels.
Take the pause.
And when those little fingers wiggle under the door, just smile…
...and flush for dramatic effect.

 

Marie A. MacArthur.

 

Why I Stopped Asking My Kids to Be "Good"

 

 

Why I Stopped Asking My Kids to Be "Good"

 

I used to say it all the time.

"Be good, okay?"

Before dropping them off at school. Before going to a friend’s house. Even before heading into the grocery store.

It just slipped out of my mouth like a reflex. Harmless. Normal. The kind of thing every parent says. Right?

But one day, my daughter looked at me and asked, "What does 'be good' mean?"

I paused. Opened my mouth. Closed it. I didn’t really have an answer.

That question cracked something open in me. And from that moment, I began rethinking what I was really asking of my kids every time I said those two little words.

 

The Hidden Pressure Behind "Be Good"

When we tell our kids to "be good," it sounds sweet. But what does it actually mean?

Are we asking them to be polite? Obedient? Quiet? Not embarrass us?

For a child, "being good" often translates to "don’t make mistakes," "don’t feel big feelings," "don’t stand out," or even worse, "don’t be yourself if it might upset someone."

It’s vague. It’s loaded. And it puts the burden on our children to interpret something we haven’t even clearly defined.

And let’s be honest: sometimes we say it because we want them to make us look good.

Ouch.

 

What I Say Now Instead

I realized I didn’t want my kids to aim for "goodness" if that meant being small, silent, or scared to be real.

So, I changed my language. Now, before they head out the door, I say things like:

• "Be kind and brave."
• "Use your voice if something doesn’t feel right."
• "Trust your gut."
• "Have fun and be yourself."
• "Remember who you are."

These phrases are clear, empowering, and don’t rely on some vague moral expectation. They invite my kids to live with intention, not just compliance.

And you know what? They respond to it.

They stand taller.

They ask better questions.

They come home with stories that make me realize: they’re listening.

 

The Problem With "Good Kids"

We’re often praised when our kids are "so well-behaved."

But let’s ask ourselves: do we want kids who are always compliant? Or kids who know how to speak up, think critically, and act from integrity?

Because "good" can sometimes mean "quiet," "people-pleasing," or "afraid to rock the boat."

And I don’t want my kids to grow up to be people who silence their instincts just to be liked.

I want them to be kind, not just nice. Courageous, not just obedient. Compassionate, not just polite.

 

Parenting in the Gray

It would be easier if parenting came with a manual. But it doesn’t.

It’s messy. It’s full of contradictions. And it’s constantly evolving.

But I’ve learned that our words shape their worlds. Every little phrase matters. Even the ones we say out of habit.

So, if you’re reading this and thinking, "I say that too!”; You’re not alone. And you’re not a bad parent.

You’re a growing one.

 

Final Thoughts: Let’s Raise Real Humans

Our kids don’t need to be "good." They need to be whole. Seen. Guided.

They need to be taught how to make mistakes and repair. How to listen to their intuition. How to be strong and soft at the same time.

So, the next time you catch yourself saying "Be good!", pause.

Ask yourself what you really want for them in that moment. And say that instead.

Because we’re not just parenting for today.

We’re parenting for the kind of adults they’ll become.

 

 If this message speaks to you, there’s more where it came from.

Download my free guide: "7 Everyday Phrases That Build Brave, Resilient Kids"

And check out my eBook and Book:
"What You’re Really Teaching Your Kids (Without Even Knowing It)"
Available on Apple Books, Kobo and more.

Let’s change the conversation, one phrase at a time.

With heart,

Marie A. MacArthur.