Sulking, screaming, fights: welcome to the summer holiday warzone
It feels like an innovative concept in the parenting toolkit that serves a valuable function, giving him a coping mechanism and the kids a quick indicator of resolution. But, as my own sons squabbled for the thousandth-or-more time about who sat on the favourite chair at breakfast — and no one heard my references to courts of the land — I wondered how else we can deal with the relentlessness of sibling arguments, big or small, and in the best way for them and for us.
How and when are we really meant to intervene, and are there times when we should just leave them to battle it out? Am I helping if I referee every disagreement (as they often beg me to), or am I hindering their ability to resolve conflict later in life?
Parenting specialist and family therapist Caroline Peeney says: 'Your children are not all clones, they're going to have different hopes, needs and wishes, so conflict is normal.'
Peeney, a mum-of-three and author of The Parenting Toolkit: Simple Steps to Happy and Confident Children, adds: 'Being part of a sibling group can be incredibly helpful — they have to learn to resolve conflict because they live together.'
She suggests four layers to managing disagreements. 'If it's a normal argument, like whose turn it is to load the dishwasher, children can enjoy honing their skills and coming to a victory, negotiating and knowing parents aren't going to get involved. These are the arguments where it might be loud but they're not screaming or hurting each other, they're just working something out.' This is level one and parents can choose to leave well alone.
• How to talk to your children about siblings
The next level is when it's growing out of control. 'That's when you acknowledge feelings,' says Peeney. 'Say we've got a problem, for example you both want to hold the pet but he can't sit on two laps. State it out loud and say 'you're both clever, can you sort it out?'
'If they're getting more cross, make suggestions that help, such as setting a timer [an inarguable referee] to split the time they each have with whatever they're fighting over.'
Level three is teaching them negotiation skills. 'Have each child say what they feel and need to their sibling. One might say, 'I was enjoying playing with the Lego and really need to finish it.' The other might say, 'I really want to play with you and feel upset because you don't want to.' You then say, 'Do you think you can come up with a plan to both get your feelings and needs met?' It sounds tough with little ones but if you start from an early age they can get into this.'
And if they're still screaming at each other? That's level four. 'It can get violent and horrible,' Peeney says. 'So, you say this is no good, you all need to go somewhere to calm down. It can be two minutes but it shows they still have the ability to feel in control.' It also offers kids and parents alike the chance to cool down from the cortisol dump now bubbling from an over-blown squabble, whatever it started over. 'Often it's not even worth returning to — it can be better to offer them a biscuit.'
Learning not to jump in all the time is 'an art', Peeney reminds parents. 'Managing their arguments feels exhausting but it's important. These are templates for future relationships.'
And contrary to that familiar, sometimes undying, refrain of 'it's not fair', the way we parent our children's arguments is not always about treating each child fairly but treating them 'uniquely'.
Dr Emma Svanberg, clinical psychologist and author of Parenting for Humans, agrees. 'Disputes are a normal and necessary part of family life but can be so difficult — and tiring — to deal with.'
So, when thinking about the fairest way to step in, she says: 'It's worth considering each child's development, how intense this particular conflict is and how they're relating to each other generally at that time. Development matters more than age because some children find emotional regulation and conflict more difficult than others, so might need a bit more support and scaffolding from you as a parent.'
She recommends that parents make a quick assessment of whether anyone risks getting hurt, physically or psychologically. 'If not, then dealing with discord [themselves] is a really important part of developing relational skills — learning how to manage conflict, negotiate and repair.' Parents might need to show their children how this is done early on but over time they should be able to step back as the child employs well-honed skills.
• Read more parenting advice, interviews, real-life stories and opinion here
In fact, those wails of 'it's not fair' might actually require a different response altogether, says Svanberg.
'This is a time to take a breath and listen. Why doesn't it feel fair? Sometimes there's a clear reason — someone got a bigger slice of cake — but sometimes these complaints are asking more 'Do you see me? Am I important to you?'' Better than answering with logic, defensiveness or a quick fix solution can be to answer with curiosity. 'Ask 'What doesn't feel fair? Why is that important to you?' Maybe even, 'Yes I can see why that would feel unfair, how shall we handle that next time?' We can teach our children that equity can be more important than absolute parity, while listening open-heartedly to their expressions of injustice.'
Svanberg also encourages parents to grant themselves grace when handling squabbles that don't pan out the way everyone would like — a kind way of acknowledging that sometimes this whole pursuit is a keen test of parents' patience.
'One of the hardest things for us as parents is the feeling that those things our children are so aggrieved about just don't feel important to us, which can make us feel pretty worn out. But the question behind this for our children is 'do you take my needs and concerns seriously?'' This is an important one, not to be minimised, but, says Svanberg: 'Bonus for us as parents is that taking their experience seriously rather than as yet another problem to solve can also make it into a connecting experience.'
Finally, she offers a word of advice for the long summer holidays: 'Take space — as much as you can — for decompression for yourself. Family discord can bring up a lot for us — about our own experiences of being parented, how conflict was handled, differences between us and a co-parent, not to mention the sensory overload of bickering children alongside the stress of the summer holiday juggle.
'It's extremely hard to respond with patience and understanding when you're feeling frazzled. Take time for anything that will help keep you grounded — whether that's a morning run, walk in the sunshine or going outside and screaming at the sky. Do what works for you.'
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The Guardian
10 hours ago
- The Guardian
Naomi Stadlen obituary
In the early 1990s, Naomi Stadlen was attending an event at the Freud Museum in London, where her husband, Anthony, was a research fellow, and someone asked her what she did. 'Nothing,' she replied, 'I just bring up our children.' Naomi had sold herself short, and she ruminated on this for a long time after the event. In 2004, she brought out her first book, What Mothers Do, Especially When It Looks Like Nothing, in direct reference to that original exchange and her answer. Subsequently described by Anne Karpf in a Guardian review as the 'best parenting book you've never heard of', the book became a bestseller, was translated into multiple languages and has been described, by many mothers over the years, as a life saver. In a sea of books about training children that often set parents up for failure, Naomi wrote about listening and trusting both yourself as a mother and your child. She went on to write four more books: two about mothering, one about 'grandmothering', and A Grand Quarrel: Elizabeth Gaskell, Florence Nightingale and Mothers Today, which was published posthumously. Naomi, who has died aged 82, was, as well as an author, an existential psychotherapist and a breastfeeding counsellor for La Leche League. Prior to all that, she worked as a social worker, occupational therapist and a book editor. But her most important role was probably as a mother. Naomi felt mothering was undervalued and under-praised; even the verb, she noted, was not much used and often replaced with the more catch-all term 'parenting'. She was born in London, to German Jewish refugees who had escaped the Gestapo. Some of her first memories were of air raids and her parents in their gas masks. When Naomi was two years old, and in the same week that her brother, Ben, was born, her father, Hans Jacoby, a graphologist (a scholar of handwriting), who was training to be a psychotherapist, died of a heart attack in the street. Naomi was alone with him until help came, an event that traumatised her. Her mother, Marianne (nee Goldschmidt), also a graphologist, was left with two young children, 10 shillings and very little support. She did not remarry. 'I didn't have any experience of fathers,' Naomi said, 'but when we [she and Anthony] had children I realised how desperately important fathers are.' Marianne went on to train and practise as a Jungian analyst. She lived long enough to see Naomi's first book published, although was dismissive of parts of it, saying: 'Will it make me feel guilty?' When I first interviewed Naomi, in 2011, I asked her why she had wanted to write about mothers. 'I come,' she said, 'from a line of problematic mothers.' After Town and Country school in Hampstead, and sixth form at the North London Collegiate school, Naomi studied European history at the University of Sussex. She trained as a psychoanalytic counsellor at Goldsmiths, University of London before becoming an existential therapist in private practice, working largely with mothers and couples. In the 60s she worked as an editor for Penguin and Hutchinson, and in 1968 she met Anthony Stadlen, a psychoanalyst and researcher, whom she later married and with whom she would have three children. She also taught and supervised doctoral psychotherapy students at the New School of Psychotherapy and Counselling in London, and taught trainee counsellors and psychotherapists at the University of North London and Birkbeck College. In 1990 she accepted an invitation from Janet Balaskas of the Active Birth Centre in north London to start holding weekly meetings for mothers to talk about how their week had gone. This group became Mothers Talking, which provided rich fodder for her books and gave her an insight into what issues concerned mothers, as well as bringing immense comfort to its members. Mothers Talking continued for 35 years, without a break, even during the pandemic (when it transferred on to Zoom). The last meeting was held just a few weeks before Naomi died. Mothers talked of how kind Naomi was, how curious. 'She wanted us to learn from one another,' one said, 'she wanted us to feel safe, seen and held.' The author and psychotherapist Philippa Perry credits Naomi with being a 'huge influence on my work as a therapist,' and how she rang La Leche League's helpline one day when she was having issues breastfeeding her daughter. 'It was Naomi on the other end. I told her my baby was biting me while breastfeeding and Naomi said to give the baby 100% attention when feeding her. It's true I had been reading magazines and books rather than staring into the eyes of my baby. 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Although she was deeply thoughtful, she could occasionally be quite shockingly emphatic and outspoken, more so than almost any other therapist I have worked with. Few could touch her for truly brilliant insights. When I saw her as a therapist she minced no words. There was none of that 'well, what do you think?' or 'let's reframe that' – she sliced through my problems with surgical precision. When I interviewed her once at her home, she asked if her husband could sit in on the interview (I was not the only journalist she asked this of), with a stack of books at her feet in case I asked her something she needed to look up. I told her I felt she often hid behind other people's words, unnecessarily, when her own were so good. After she was diagnosed with cancer she decided to be more assertive and use her time left to make her voice heard. Some of the things she said to me I carry with me every day. The most valuable – 'the only correct response to new information is curiosity, anything else is about you' – was a genius way to describe projection. What Mothers Do has a chapter about how mothers are instantly (and I would add constantly) interruptible and rarely an hour passes when I don't think of this. Naomi is survived by Anthony and their children, Rachel, Shoël and Darrel, three grandchildren, Tovi, Anya and Antoshka, and two step-grandchildren, Lily and Florence. Naomi Stadlen, psychotherapist and author, born 25 November 1942; died 6 June 2025
The Guardian
a day ago
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The loneliness of being an only child never really goes away, which is why I gifted my two daughters each other
I recently stumbled across a letter I wrote to Santa when I was six years old. Deep in a box of crumpled photos and loose negatives, my earnest correspondence to the big man requested nothing but a sibling. I wrote sister in every possible iteration: half-sister, adopted sister, stepsister, foster sister and, underneath, just in case Santa couldn't grant that particular wish, I added the same options for brother. If Santa somehow turned out to be real and started granting wishes to tired mums in their late 30s, my wish would probably remain the same: I'd rewrite history and add a sibling. A lovely one, preferably, but I'll take what I can get. Because honestly? Being an only child sucks. My parents split up when I was one. It was the right call, as are most divorces, however it meant the experience of a full sibling was off the table at an early age. I spent my early years with my single mum; we were a great team and I was very comfortable with things as they were. Until I started noticing friends acquiring siblings. What fun my friends had with their siblings! An inbuilt playmate! A co-conspirator against the enemy that is parents! Someone to blame when things got broken! Someone to confide in when things got tough! I was sold. My poor mother had to deal with my begging and pleading for a sibling, which unbeknownst to me was her wish too. Circumstances weren't on our side and, after years of trying to convince her to conjure a sibling out of thin air, I set my sights on my dad and stepmother. I moved in with them at age 12 to attend a high school in the city. With my stepmum being younger than my dad, the chance of a baby half-sibling seemed much higher and I wasted no breath in regularly asking for one. Deep in their PhDs, however, my wish was not to be granted and my teenage years crept by without a sibling in sight. To add to the loneliness of being an only child, I had no cousins I was close with. Either by distance, age or having little in common, it was just me and a bunch of adults. When you're a kid trying to figure out the world without other kids messing up beside you, it can feel like you're doing it all wrong. All the focus lands on you and that attention could be utterly mortifying. Nowhere was this more excruciatingly clear than the summer I got my second-ever period during a Christmas trip to visit my grandparents in Sydney. Having not yet braved tampons, I told everyone I'd just skip swimming for the week. But with four adults and no other kids to absorb their attention, it was decided: I would learn to use a tampon. Much to my dismay, my grandpa was sent out to buy mini tampons and, as suggested by my stepmum, a small jar of Vaseline 'to help things along'. The process was explained in painful detail by my stepmum, with well-meaning interjections from my grandmother. When I was finally sent off to the bathroom to give it a go, I was acutely aware of the four adults waiting just outside the door, eager for news of my success. While the tampon incident of 2002 was indeed a success, that summer made me painfully aware of how different I was from families with multiple kids running around. While I'm sure there are mortifying moments in bigger families, at least there's comfort in knowing you aren't the only one experiencing toe-curling embarrassment. At the risk of someone pulling out a tiny violin, at 38 my yearning for a sibling has only deepened. The loneliness of being an adult only child is an interesting catch-22 in a time when only-child families are surging and I find myself biting my tongue lest I make someone feel bad for not giving their child a sibling. No one should be made to feel bad for not having more kids, especially not in this economy (or this climate), but it does add a layer to the loneliness of being an only child: feeling like you can't actually talk about it (I know, I know – tiny violin). So while I'll never experience the delight of completely unhinged sibling fights that are resolved two seconds later, or the joy of being an aunty to kids I adore that I can hand back, I have gifted my daughters each other. Twenty months into my experience of parenting siblings and I'm already relishing the 'But she spat on me first!' and the 'But I'm not even touching her' (said by a seven-year-old whose toe is a millimetre from angry screaming toddler's face). And somehow, watching them navigate this ridiculous, messy relationship is quietly healing my childhood loneliness. Freya Bennett is a writer based on Dja Dja Wurrung Country and is the co-founder and editor of Ramona Magazine
The Guardian
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- The Guardian
The loneliness of being an only child never really goes away, which is why I gifted my two daughters each other
I recently stumbled across a letter I wrote to Santa when I was six years old. Deep in a box of crumpled photos and loose negatives, my earnest correspondence to the big man requested nothing but a sibling. I wrote sister in every possible iteration: half-sister, adopted sister, stepsister, foster sister and, underneath, just in case Santa couldn't grant that particular wish, I added the same options for brother. If Santa somehow turned out to be real and started granting wishes to tired mums in their late 30s, my wish would probably remain the same: I'd rewrite history and add a sibling. A lovely one, preferably, but I'll take what I can get. Because honestly? Being an only child sucks. My parents split up when I was one. It was the right call, as are most divorces, however it meant the experience of a full sibling was off the table at an early age. I spent my early years with my single mum; we were a great team and I was very comfortable with things as they were. Until I started noticing friends acquiring siblings. What fun my friends had with their siblings! An inbuilt playmate! A co-conspirator against the enemy that is parents! Someone to blame when things got broken! Someone to confide in when things got tough! I was sold. My poor mother had to deal with my begging and pleading for a sibling, which unbeknownst to me was her wish too. Circumstances weren't on our side and, after years of trying to convince her to conjure a sibling out of thin air, I set my sights on my dad and stepmother. I moved in with them at age 12 to attend a high school in the city. With my stepmum being younger than my dad, the chance of a baby half-sibling seemed much higher and I wasted no breath in regularly asking for one. Deep in their PhDs, however, my wish was not to be granted and my teenage years crept by without a sibling in sight. To add to the loneliness of being an only child, I had no cousins I was close with. Either by distance, age or having little in common, it was just me and a bunch of adults. When you're a kid trying to figure out the world without other kids messing up beside you, it can feel like you're doing it all wrong. All the focus lands on you and that attention could be utterly mortifying. Nowhere was this more excruciatingly clear than the summer I got my second-ever period during a Christmas trip to visit my grandparents in Sydney. Having not yet braved tampons, I told everyone I'd just skip swimming for the week. But with four adults and no other kids to absorb their attention, it was decided: I would learn to use a tampon. Much to my dismay, my grandpa was sent out to buy mini tampons and, as suggested by my stepmum, a small jar of Vaseline 'to help things along'. The process was explained in painful detail by my stepmum, with well-meaning interjections from my grandmother. When I was finally sent off to the bathroom to give it a go, I was acutely aware of the four adults waiting just outside the door, eager for news of my success. While the tampon incident of 2002 was indeed a success, that summer made me painfully aware of how different I was from families with multiple kids running around. While I'm sure there are mortifying moments in bigger families, at least there's comfort in knowing you aren't the only one experiencing toe-curling embarrassment. At the risk of someone pulling out a tiny violin, at 38 my yearning for a sibling has only deepened. The loneliness of being an adult only child is an interesting catch-22 in a time when only-child families are surging and I find myself biting my tongue lest I make someone feel bad for not giving their child a sibling. No one should be made to feel bad for not having more kids, especially not in this economy (or this climate), but it does add a layer to the loneliness of being an only child: feeling like you can't actually talk about it (I know, I know – tiny violin). So while I'll never experience the delight of completely unhinged sibling fights that are resolved two seconds later, or the joy of being an aunty to kids I adore that I can hand back, I have gifted my daughters each other. Twenty months into my experience of parenting siblings and I'm already relishing the 'But she spat on me first!' and the 'But I'm not even touching her' (said by a seven-year-old whose toe is a millimetre from angry screaming toddler's face). And somehow, watching them navigate this ridiculous, messy relationship is quietly healing my childhood loneliness. Freya Bennett is a writer based on Dja Dja Wurrung Country and is the co-founder and editor of Ramona Magazine
