By Hal E. Runkel, LMFT

We’ve all seen the commercial. You know, the one that takes place in the front seat of the car, with a silent mom and her son, presumably on the way to school. Several seconds of that silence go by, leaving us in eager anticipation for a conversation that never comes. Instead we get a placard against a deathly black backdrop, explaining that yet another parenting opportunity was missed. In this case, an opportunity to talk with her kids about drugs.

So, I’m wondering, is anyone inspired by this guilt- ridden prompt? Does anyone see this commercial, feel sufficiently horrible about the parenting job they’ve done thus far, and resolve to correct it all by pouncing on their kid as soon as they pick them up from school?

I hope not.

I hope this scare tactic doesn’t work with you because frankly, it doesn’t work with your kids. In fact, few things could be more unproductive in developing the relationships we really crave with our kids.

Here’s why:

This public service commercial ascribes to the publicly popular notion that parenting is really built around “teachable moments,” those rare, brief opportunities we get to dispense our lifetime’s worth of wisdom into our kids’ noggins. The thinking here is that in today’s busy, busy life environment, we had better capitalize on whatever fleeting moments we get with our kids. And by capitalize, we mean educate them on the perils of the world: violent media, internet predators, premature pregnancy and STDs, and of course, drugs and alcohol.

The thinking is that these perils are so dangerous, and so damaging—not just to the families involved, but to all of society—that the primary responsibility of parents is preventative education. And our primary emotion should be fear. And guilt.

We should be so afraid of these dangers that we never let an opportunity pass. And if we do let those moments go, then we should feel guilty. It was bad enough when we were fed the notion that our time with our kids had to be “quality time.” Now we have to take advantage of the “teachable moments” or risk losing the singular opportunity to influence our kids. So wee put intense pressure on ourselves to make sure we dispense the right wisdom for the right situation, guaranteeing that our children will avoid any undue suffering, bad decisions, or ill fates.

There seems to be so much fear promoted as the normal basis for the parenting, and that the natural way to deal with it is to listen to the fear and do whatever it takes to protect your kids. No one ever seems to challenge parents to learn from and grow beyond their fear, calling their whole family toward a higher plane of seeing life as adventurous, playful, and even wonderfully difficult.

But somewhere we got the idea that the parent/child relationship is not really a relationship between two human beings but rather a lecture series between a teacher and a student. And when the lecture is motivated by the deepest fears of the lecturer, the student becomes one who would rather be anywhere else than listening to his lecturer, because he knows that his lecturer needs him to listen in order to validate him as a lecturer.

And that pressure we place on ourselves is still evidence that we’ve fallen for that primary lie about parenting, namely that we are responsible for our children. Like Nemo’s father, we feel responsible for making sure nothing bad ever happens to our kids. And that’s why this preventative education is the number one job as a parent. But the one critical point that all the “more education” pundits miss is this: insight makes no impact on the unmotivated. In truth, insight only hardens the unmotivated. You’ve experienced this truth in a number of ways. Ever give sound dieting advice to someone who’s not really interested in losing weight? Doesn’t matter how good the advice is, or even how well you’ve presented it—that person’s lack of motivation makes any insight bounce right off, and usually makes that person even more hardened against your efforts—and against you.

And that’s the real tragedy of the “teachable moment” mentality. People fail to see the relational dynamics of advice-giving. You trying to teach me, when I haven’t asked for your wisdom, not only deafens me to whatever you’re teaching, it hardens me toward you. Call this irrational, call this moronic, call it ridiculous. But don’t call it a lie, because it is a law of the universe as true as gravity.

Now, please don’t get me wrong. I believe the most influential forces on the lives of kids are the lives of their parents. I wouldn’t be doing this whole ScreamFree Parenting thing if I didn’t. But this influence does not occur in our fear-and-guilt- motivated efforts to educate our kids out of danger. Our primary influence occurs through our day-to-day lives—our entire lives. How we conduct ourselves in every environment—that is the stuff that does the teaching.

For instance, my kids will learn more from watching how I treat the wait staff at a fast food restaurant than they will from a lecture on how to treat others. My kids will learn more about alcohol by watching my moderation and appreciation for it than they will from a stern warning about all its dangers. And ultimately, my kids will learn more about relationships by experiencing one with me—one led by mutual respect and calm, even playful guidance—than they will from pressure-packed efforts to turn moments into mountains.

Do I have fears about my kids, their choices, and the dangers of this world? Of course. Am I perfect in my ability to regulate those fears and yet still try to talk about those dangers with my kids? Of course not. But more and more, I gain comfort in the truth that I don’t have to get it perfect. And I won’t teach them everything. And I don’t have to. this thought from the priest and author, Henri Nouwen:

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.

Now, you might be one of those who’s been trained to immediately react to any and all “friendship” language when it comes to your relationship with your kids. But substitute the word “friend” for “parent” in that paragraph, and then live that way with your kids, and you will have more lasting influence than you’ve ever imagined.

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