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Yahoo
16 minutes ago
- Yahoo
Toddlers and Sharing: What's Realistic and How to Support Them
Sharing isn't natural for toddlers, and that's not a parenting fail, but here's how to guide them Here's the truth: sharing is hard for toddlers. At this stage, their thinking is self-focused. They're still learning that other people have feelings, wants, and needs too. That means when your toddler refuses to share, it's not a reflection of your parenting, it's simply where they are developmentally. Most kids don't fully grasp the concept of sharing until closer to the age four. Before then, expecting them to happily hand over a favorite toy on demand is unrealistic. Instead of forcing it, we can focus on laying the groundwork: Modeling, practicing patience, and creating opportunities for sharing in ways that match their age and stage. Building the foundation for sharing Model it yourself. Show them what sharing looks like in daily life. Exaggerate the fun and be clear about how it feels. 'You're sharing your blueberries with me? Wow, that makes me so happy. Thank you!' Point it out in real life. Sharing happens around us all the time. Narrate it when you see it. Mommy's friend is borrowing my book. When she's done, she'll give it back. I feel happy sharing, and she feels happy too. Practice turn-taking. Simple back-and-forth games help toddlers learn patience and fairness. Start with very short turns: It's your turn with the toy. Now it's my turn. Now it's your turn again. This helps them trust that waiting doesn't mean losing forever. Use music or play. Toddlers love routines around turn-taking. Try alternating songs: 'Mommy's song first, then your song.' When you play their request, name the process: 'We took turns. My favorite song, then your favorite song.' As kids approach age three, they'll start to understand sharing better, but it's still a skill in progress. Expect practice, not perfection. Sharing with other kids Sharing at home with a parent is one thing, but put two toddlers in the same room with one toy, and suddenly you've got a front-row seat to the 'Mine!' Olympics. When kids play together, sharing feels even harder because they're balancing their own wants with someone else's in real time. Here's how to handle it depending on your child's age: Under 18 months: Distraction works best. If one child grabs a toy, redirect the other with something new. 'Let's play with this truck while we wait!' 18 months and up: Try verbalizing what's happening. 'You both want the doll. Your friend is playing with it right now. It's hard to wait, but when she's done, you'll have a turn. Let's play with the blocks until then.' Kids this age are practicing patience in tiny doses, and every attempt (even if it ends in tears) is part of the learning process. When a sharing tantrum happens Even with the best preparation, sharing often ends in tears. And that's okay, for toddlers, waiting their turn can feel like the end of the world. Tantrums over toys don't mean you've failed. They mean your child is still learning patience and emotional regulation. In these moments, your calm response is the anchor they need. Here are some strategies that can help: Visual timers (after 2½ years). 'We'll set the timer for two minutes. When it dings, it's your turn.' If it causes more chaos, put the toy away: 'This toy needs a break. We'll try again later.' Stay calm and guide. Narrate what's happening, empathize, and reassure them: 'You want the doll, but your friend is still using it. You'll have a turn soon. Let's play with the truck while we wait.' Hold boundaries gently. Tears don't mean you should change the rule, because consistency helps them trust the process. Tantrums during sharing aren't setbacks, they're practice. Each time you guide them calmly, you're helping your child build the skills to handle big feelings and trust that turns do come back around. The bottom line Sharing isn't something toddlers instantly know how to do. It's a skill they grow into with practice, patience, and lots of guidance from you. Refusing to share doesn't mean they're selfish, and it doesn't mean you've failed as a parent. It simply means they're still learning. Your job isn't to force it, but to coach it: modeling what sharing looks like, giving them small chances to practice, and staying calm when big feelings show up. Over time, those messy moments add up to real progress. So the next time your toddler clutches a toy like it's made of gold, remember: this isn't the finish line, it's just practice. And with your steady support, they'll eventually learn that sharing isn't about losing, it's about connection. If you like tips like these, the PedsDocTalk newsletter shares more parenting insights, including practical advice you can actually use and plenty of reassurance for the tough days, too.
Yahoo
16 minutes ago
- Yahoo
I just want to make things easier for my kids during back-to-school season. I'm learning they don't need me to.
While back-to-school season is exciting, it's also stressful — more for me than for my kids. They often have short-lived crises that I want to solve for them. I've realized they can actually do a lot for myself, and I don't need to be a helicopter parent. The start of school is always exciting — the fresh notebooks, the first-day photos, the promise of new beginnings. But it's also always a bit more stressful than I anticipate. Not for my kids so much, oddly enough. For me. My kids' crises pass quickly, but they still throw me off Last year, my middle daughter was driving herself to school for the first time. The morning had all the nerves you'd expect: traffic, new routines, figuring out parking. She came home in tears. "I hate the minivan," she said. "I hate the spot I got. I hate that guy." "That guy" was the student parked next to her. She'd bumped her car into his while trying to back out of her assigned space. Not a major accident, but enough to unravel her on day one. I sprang into action. Should we call the school and request a new spot? Should she drive our smaller car? Should I drive her again? I spent days brainstorming possible fixes. I even dreamt about it — as I'm prone to do when I have something on my mind. A few days later, I cautiously suggested a few solutions. She blinked at me. "Oh, it's fine now," she said. "We're actually friends. He helped me back out today." Crisis over. Emotional storm, passed. No intervention needed. This year, it was my youngest daughter who sent me spiraling. She started at a new high school — a great one, but very different from her last. And not the same one her sister goes to. "I wish I had stayed at my old school," she said that first afternoon. "It's so big and different." My mom-heart panicked. My brain lit up with possible fixes. Could I transfer her back? Get more involved? Organize a social? Learn lunch schedules and stage a "spontaneous" meet-cute with potential friends? But by the end of the first week, she was chattering about teachers she liked, the friends she was sitting with, and the conversation she had with a senior who walked her to the library. She was fine. I often want to step in even when my kids don't need it Turns out, I react more strongly to these transitions than my daughters do. I wouldn't call myself a helicopter parent — I don't monitor their grades or email their teachers. But when one of them feels off, even for a moment, I feel it in my whole body. I don't want to take over, I just want to fix the hard parts. Smooth the path. Pad the corners a bit. But they rarely need me to do any of that. They have their own resilience, their own coping skills, their own ways of figuring things out. And they do figure things out — often faster than I do. It's humbling. And honestly, a little uncomfortable. My girls are growing up. They are becoming themselves in ways that don't require my full-time emotional project management. And while I'll probably never stop feeling deeply when they're struggling, I can learn to sit with those feelings instead of acting on them. I'm still here to listen, offer support, and yes, quietly dream up backup plans. But I'm working on not letting my own discomfort steer the ship. Sometimes parenting means holding back — not because you don't care, but because you do. So I'm trying to helicopter less. Or maybe just hover at a higher altitude. Read the original article on Business Insider Solve the daily Crossword
Vogue
an hour ago
- Vogue
On the Grief—and the Joy—of Parental Estrangement
When I was eight, my mother stood in front of 12 third grade girls, teaching us how to make 'chicken ovens': fold sheets of aluminum foil into pockets; fill them with raw chicken, veggies, and spices; seal them; and place them in the fire. The other mothers who came to chaperone our Girl Scout camp had already praised my mom for organizing a wholesome weekend in the rustic Florida wilderness, but with her simple but delicious meals, she became the most popular Girl Scout leader our troop ever had. This was my mother at her best: playing board games, preparing vintage meals, and organizing elaborate birthday parties. 'I want us to be best friends,' she often said, with a tenderness that made me believe I could forgive her for anything. But my mother had also struggled with substance abuse and mental unwellness since she was a teenager. When I was in high school and my father passed away, Mom disappeared for weeks, leaving me to care for my younger brother. When she was home, she bounced between unpredictable rage and a childlike, booze-induced playfulness. Without meaning to, we reversed roles. I woke up early to make coffee and breakfast, went to school and work, and returned home to make dinner; she slept most of the day and left joints burning on the counter as she stumbled to bed at dawn. By 17, I'd had enough. I moved out and helped my brother move in with our uncle. For the next two decades, I cycled through periods of trying to connect with my mother and setting strong boundaries around her drug use and behavior. Then, in my mid-30s, I ended our relationship for good. I wasn't angry when I cut off contact. Years of therapy had brought me to a place of feeling compassion for my mother's struggles, while also knowing that supporting her through them was not my responsibility. I believe that saying goodbye to my mom was the healthiest move I could make, both for myself and for my children. But it was also one of the hardest things I've ever done. Redefining my life since then has been a process of unlearning, joy, and grief. After enduring the deaths of my dad, grandparents, and every other adult who knew me growing up, saying goodbye to Mom felt akin to severing myself from my own childhood. My only sibling is two years younger than I am, so nobody is left to tell me stories of my life from before my memory started. But over time, I realized that my grief over my mom had partly predated our estrangement. For my whole life, I'd longed for the kind of care that doesn't come with consequence. While my mom could orchestrate a gorgeous celebration and listen thoroughly when I needed a sounding board for my failures, at work or in relationships ('You can talk to Mom about anything,' my brother would say. 'She won't judge you because she's probably done worse'), anger and cruelty—and then shame and apologies—bloomed out of her unpredictably. I couldn't trust her softness.
