Don’t Do For Children What They Can Do For Themselves

I’ve had slow-motion Matrix-esque parenting reflections lately. One involved watching my 10-year-old son transfer ramen into the takeout styrofoam soup container while we were eating at the Mitsuwa Market Food Court. 

At the end of our meal, he was using his chopsticks to transfer the noodles. It was slow and sloppy. A broth puddle was being produced on the table and I thought confidently, grumpily, realistically – cynically, “I will be the one to clean this up.” I started to move my hands towards him to take the chopsticks out of his hands, grab the bowl, and dump the ramen into the takeout container. I stopped myself, however, the words of Progressive Education Founding Mother Caroline Pratt visually rising to my mind. Her words have permanent residence in my brain-pan but don’t always manifest into action, especially after 7 p.m. The words appeared in my head in the moment – large, green, italicized: 

Don't do for children what they can do for themselves.

With clarity and an appreciation for my son’s independence, I heeded Pratt’s instructions and just watched him. I observed him. He ended up taking a few delicious bites as he transferred the noodles. I found this huh-larious! He picked up the bowl and drank, looked up and asked, a little bit to himself and child-like, “How often do you think the restaurant actually makes the broth?” He then dumped the leftovers into the takeout container, using the same technique I would have. He spilled more. This is where I’ll note that the Mitsuwa Food Court is typically freezing so he was wearing my newish teal zip-up sweatshirt that I had offered him earlier. Broth splattered over the front of my sweatshirt. He nonchalantly said, “We’ll have to spray Shout on this.” He sealed the container and got up to leave. I narrated (without a guilt-trippy tone), I’m gonna make sure to wipe this up so the person who cleans doesn't have additional work. At this moment, my mind swung to two other branches. 

First Branch: Mothers Day. I watched my friend's daughter, age five, fiercely independent, full of fire, and the youngest of three. The child had a plastic-wrapped popsicle in her hand and proceeded to “open” it for the longest three minutes of my life. I watched, captivated. She didn’t ask for help. No one else noticed this struggle for the first two minutes. I realized it wasn’t a struggle for her. I deemed it a struggle; I placed judgment on the task. She was just opening the popsicle. I watched her fastidiously trying an array of techniques. The progress was minimal. Painful. Again, my pain, no one else’s. Her mom looked at her for a moment and didn’t do anything. And by not doing anything, she did everything. The child didn’t get frustrated, she just kept at it. And she opened it. I saw this victory in slow motion. I wanted to throw my hands up. Hug others as if it were a 9th-inning walk-off home run at Dodger Stadium. I wanted to celebrate the independence this child was granted and the child herself. At that moment, my mind swung to another branch. 

Second branch: Group Six Camping Trip. The student breakfast committee had laid out a delectable spread that included hot cocoa, freshly cut fruit, and bagels with cream cheese. I believe it’s a fact that food tastes better in nature. 

Before we get more into the breakfast scene, I’ll offer context here, maybe unnecessarily, that I love being around the company of children. I see children as full humans. I have devoted my career to helping children use their minds and hearts well. I love them and like them. I do. They amaze me with how they think and learn and work and grow together. I want to be in the same room as them. In this case, I want to be around the same campfire. This particular generation of children endured a pandemic. They know resilience in myriad ways. So when I share the below observations, it doesn’t come with shame or blame, though it does come with wondering. 

On this Group Six camping trip (and the previous camping trips with children too)…some of these children, ages 11 and 12, wanted me to open their hot chocolate packet for them. One child handed me their Nature Valley Granola Bar without saying a word. I handed it back without saying a word. I then proceeded to observe them proceed to hand the granola bar to a friend who opened it for them. 

And on this second day of breakfast, another child approached me earnestly with their plain bagel, again not saying a word. I note here, this isn’t your child. I note here, it’s all of our children. 

Here was our subsequent dialogue: 

Student: Cream cheese.

Melinda: Yep. Cream cheese. 

Student: Um…

Melinda: So right. What are your options? 

Student: [Pause, thinking face.] 

Melinda: [Pause, small patient smile.]

Student: Go to my mess kit and get a knife? 

Melinda: Yes. Check out my plate. This is how I organized everything. 

Student: [Gets a bagel. Eats half of it plain, eventually goes to the mess kit and successfully spreads cream cheese on the aforementioned half-eaten bagel.]

I share this as a tale of caution, even as a tale of empathy and appreciation. Because the student, however small the feat, proceeded with independence and competence eventually. I know that many of these children had never had a sleepover because of COVID restrictions. This is the generation of children where we brought them snack after snack while they were on Zoom so we could tend to our next task. Let this be a tale of inspiration for us adults guiding all of our children. As Regina Pally, the Founder of Center for Reflective Communities, once told me, “The goal of parenting is to become obsolete,” aka “Don’t do for children what they can do for themselves,” aka don’t dump the ramen.

I know and espouse the expression, “Prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child.” I know that to be true, and yet, the road is long, and I sometimes get tired and cranky. It can be hard to see kids struggle too. At times, I just wanna help. I go back to the ramen and think about all of the times I “dumped the ramen” myself for my children. Thousands, I imagine. This recent moment where I didn’t, where I resisted the urge, I realized what was driving my desire to do it for him was being in a rush. I just wanted to go home. It wasn’t like we were late for anything. I was being impatient. Also, I admit that I like the way I do things: efficient and in control. 

When I weigh my tiredness/perfectionism with the reality of what it means to take away the opportunity for my children to be competent, independent, and self-sufficient – I am more motivated to set the summer intention of choosing the latter. At least most times if possible, because sometimes the rush is real. When I do dump the ramen myself, I can narrate, “I know that you can do this yourself and we gotta go so I’m going to do this right now.” Sometimes, too, our kids just need the support. I will check myself, however, not to cross the line of supporting them learning how to do something with doing it for them. I want children asking for help after they’ve tried everything, not before they’ve even started. 

If I step back, there’s actually one final branch to swing to – it’s up high and a more analytical one. The stakes are actually high on this branch, because in no time our children are going to be in complex situations where they must be self-sufficient. The child who needed help spreading cream cheese will have a driver's license in four years. Our now children will soon be teenagers who need to think quickly on their feet and have the confidence to know that they can problem solve on the spot or persevere through challenge and failure. Depending on my mood, I picture a teenager working through a strenuous group project with apathetic groupmates not pulling their weight or I think of way more complicated scenarios. Will they have the wherewithal, confidence, and internalized agency to deal with fraught moments without us? They must. That’s their road ahead and we are not necessarily on it. 

Let’s check in with each other about how we’re supporting children’s sense of independence and relationship to struggle over the course of the summer and the 2023-2024 school year. We can encourage each other. Support each other. In one of my favorite poems of all times, the strange, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” William Carlos William writes, “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow.” The poem of our summer can lead with, “So Much Depends Upon Ramen, a Pink Popsicle, and Cream Cheese.” Because, so much does depend on not doing for children what they can do for themselves.