Gift of Simplicity: How To Stop Childhood Whining

Friday, January 12, 2007

How To Stop Childhood Whining

Why Is My Child Whining?
© Connie Newbauer

Find out why young school-aged children whine and how to stop it!

Younger school-aged children have mastered the art of walking, talking and toileting themselves for the most part; but parents have to remember that their young child’s vocabulary may not yet allow him to express himself as fully as he needs.

Remember when, as an infant, your child used to cry to be fed, changed, or while learning a new challenge? Your younger school-aged child will do that as well! What can you do to stop the whining and crying?

Read the Rest of the Article at Why Is My Child Whining!

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Children's Stories

Andrew n’ Me

“Stop it Andrew!” Seven-year-old Christopher yelled in his very biggest I mean it big-brother voice.

Andrew giggled and took another swipe at his brother’s four-story snap-block garage. The garage floors collapsed into a heap on the floor. Christopher’s play was done. Andrew’s was not. For five years, Andrew ruined everything he could of Christopher’s.

Christopher’s room was not safe from invasion. His playtime never went as planned anymore and snack time usually turned into Christopher being sent to his room. It wasn’t fair. It was all Andrew’s fault. Worst of all, there wasn’t anything Christopher could do about it. Mother just didn’t understand. Now it was happening again.

Christopher struggled for control, clutching his hands at his side. Andrew laughed at the red creeping up Christopher’s neck, spreading to his face.

Andrew stood placing one finger on what was left of the garage. Walking slowly, he circled around Christopher and his play area. Tracing with a single finger, Andrew walked around the garage, dipping down to the floor and finally across Christopher’s back.

Christopher felt that familiar feeling of anger curling in his stomach and his chest started to hurt. Shaking with barely controlled anger, Christopher sat as still as a statue. He tried counting to ten. He tried taking deep breaths.

A finger ran across Christopher’s shoulders and he heard a quiet snicker behind him. Andrew knew he had Christopher’s attention. Andrew was about to get exactly what he wanted.

“Andrew, STOP IT!” Christopher lost control. He yelled as loud as he could, hoping to scare Andrew. Jumping to his feet, Christopher towered over Andrew, hands still clenched at his sides and anger flashing like a red neon sign from his face.

That was Andrew’s cue. “Mom!“ Andrew dissolved into tears.

“Christopher Michael!” Mom came tearing around the corner, flour on her hands and anger in her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you not to upset your baby brother?”

“Oh, sure,” Christopher thought, “here it comes.”

“I’ve had enough. Go to your room right now and think about what you’ve done.”

Christopher didn’t even try to set his mother straight. He had tried too many times before. One thing his mother didn’t know is that he had enough today too. Christopher was so mad at Andrew that he did exactly as his mother said and sat in his room, arms across his chest, thinking about Andrew…and how to get even.

Christopher had tried many things before. He had tried hiding outside, but Andrew always found him. He tried sitting quietly and reading a book, but Andrew

always snuggled close and ruined his time alone. Christopher had tried everything he knew to make Andrew go away and nothing worked.

After a long time thinking, mother came to get Christopher. This time, he had a plan.

Following Mother into the living room, he saw the blocks that still needed to be picked up. Mother left Christopher to finish her baking.

Hearing a giggle, Christopher looked up and felt that old familiar feeling of dread. Andrew leaned against the wall, fingers in mouth and trouble in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, it was time for Christopher to put his plan into action.

“Andrew, I’m glad you’re here!

Andrew’s face twisted into deep thought. Christopher had never said that to him before. His fingers fell from his mouth.

“Do you want to play with me?” Christopher offered in his very best big brother voice.

Andrew looked at Christopher in wonder and with a little bit of curiosity. “You want to play with me?”

Christopher smiled at the look of shock on his little brother’s face. “Sure! Go get your blocks. I have a garage, but no building. I need a building for my people to work in.”

Andrew skipped to his room to get his blocks. Seconds later he was back, dumping his blocks right next to Christopher. Christopher smiled. Andrew couldn’t believe his eyes. Christopher smiled?

“Here Andrew, build right here.” Christopher pointed to a place right next to his ruined garage. He didn’t point to a place across the room or tell Andrew to go into the kitchen and play. Christopher wanted Andrew right next to him.

Several silent minutes later, mother peeked around the corner. Christopher had rebuilt his garage. Andrew had built his building. Block cars with little people were parking in the garage with a “vroom, vroom” from Andrew.

Mother smiled. Christopher looked back and smiled at mother.

Mysteriously, Andrew smiled as well. Finally, Andrew had what he had really wanted all along.

Leader Of The Lost

Grade school and middle school were nightmares for me and high school was quickly heading that way too. I just don’t understand why a nice guy like me has to be humiliated on the thorny path to adulthood.

In first grade my best friend was Elmo. Sporting a somewhat round figure, Elmo and I alternated claiming the position of ‘last picked’ during each gym class. He and I clung together on the sidelines, comforted by each other’s uneasy presence. Both of us were baffled as to why we spent much time on the sidelines, but knew we were different.

At the beginning of our next year together, Elmo homed in on me like a long-lost friend and by third grade I was labeled. I ‘ve fought for years to overcome the image of leader to the downtrodden, ultra-smart and totally geeky. By the end of grade school, it was painfully clear that “different” didn’t translate into “popular” with others. If I was spoken to, it was because someone needed the answers to last night’s homework. All in all, school was painful.

I was sure high school would take me from geek-freak to football stud, but the fates were not with me. All in one summer, my face broke out, I got braces and mother decided I needed glasses. Not any old glasses, but “something sturdy.” Let’s just say they were a complete validation of my place as class outsider.

It has occurred to me recently that I look like exactly what I am – someone who is always on the honor roll because they have no social life. The glasses alone assured, nine days into my first high school year, that all of the kids following me through eight disastrous years of school had found me. Worse yet, they loved my new look. Ugh! How could things get any worse, an appointment as AV club president?

Dropping into my assigned chair in English, I performed the obsessive-compulsive rites of the truly pathetic, readying my desk. Finishing, my eyes glazed over staring at the toothy, bubbly blonde that was Karla Mathers. I was pretty sure she secretly harbored feelings for me. I had recently caught her smiling behind her hand and staring my way while whispering into a friend’s ear.

A ruckus at the door caught my attention. Charles Quimby marched through the door ramrod straight, his eyes darting around the room looking for enemies. We had all witnessed his peculiarity: Charles, raised by his grandparents, was a little slow in the reality department. He embraced their love of the Civil War with tenacity and unfortunately, didn’t get that we weren’t still involved in that little altercation. Throughout middle school, he saluted teachers and routinely checked the cafeteria for enemies. Rumors are he did good work; no enemies were ever found.

Unfortunately for Charles, no real friends were found either. During lunch, even I got a kick out of sending a folded note over to Charles’ table, where he sat alone, telling him that Confederates had been spotted. Without exception, he would pop to attention, meticulously walking the perimeter looking for hidden enemies. For once, I felt part of the school as each one of us relished his reliability for lunchtime entertainment.

Now, the principal and Mr. Turnbuckle were talking about Charles’ transfer…into my first period English class, where we sat in alphabetical order. “Let me see,” I heard Mr. Turnbuckle say as he consulted his seating chart. “Nelson, Newhouse, Pettigrew, ah, yes! Charles, you may take your place directly behind Jason Pettigrew.” Charles eagerly looked in my direction. “Mr. Pettigrew, kindly raise your hand,” called Mr. Turnbuckle.

Reluctantly, I raised my hand, forcing my eyes to focus on the impossible. The one and only Charles Quimby was grinning and moving rapidly in my direction. Quimby will follow me until high school graduation. My life was truly over. Instinctively, I knew that a new friend of Charles’ status could only hurt me.

The next hour was spent helping Charles settle into a new English class. I was looking forward to sliding into a seat next to an enthusiastic Elmo at lunch and unloading the events of the morning.

Unfortunately, class did not end as routinely as hoped. Just before the bell rang, Mr. Turnbuckle completed his lesson and we were left to our own devices. I studied, but all around me there was a curious groundswell of murmurs, accompanied by snickers. Lifting my head, I was horrified, yet enthralled by the sight of Charles in the middle of guys that weren’t known for their kindness to anyone that wasn’t an athlete.

Beet-red and stammering, Charles was surrounded. Sitting this close to Charles’ discomfort embarrassed me. It was one thing to throw notes across the cafeteria to watch Charles snap to attention, but quite another to see him humiliated within a few steps of me.

Dread and fear worked its way through Charles’ posture as Karla approached the group with a look of smugness. Charles glanced my way in wide-eyed panic. In that instant, I knew that although I had been one of his tormentors, he was looking for me to save him from further embarrassment. I froze. Saving Charles meant sacrificing my dignity. I had problems of my own. These were the same people that shunned Elmo and I. Karla was now part of that group. Coming to his rescue meant alienating the very people I wanted acceptance from.

Uncertainty was making my palms sweat. I recognized it as the same sweat that broke out during gym class when the team captains were down to the last three – Elmo, myself and whoever was going to be chosen. Charles wasn’t that different from Elmo and I after all. Without thinking, I croaked in a small voice: “Charles….” Karla’s head turned to stare as if she wasn’t quite sure what she’d heard.

“Ah… Charles,” I said a little stronger, rising from my chair, “C’mon’ over here, we’re not quite finished - are we?”

As Charles walked away, laughter followed. The full impact of what I’d just done hit home. I was feeling very sick to my stomach. Charles and I took our seats. I turned to avoid any further conversation. Oblivious, Charles tried to thank me as Karla sneered our way. My stomach twisted and turned, rising and falling behind my belt. I struggled to stop the heat creeping into my face.

Relentlessly, Charles tapped me on the shoulder. “What Charles,” I responded sharply. Turning, I saw Charles beaming.

“Thanks, Jason!” Bobbing his head in an excited manner, Charles wasn’t about to let this deed go unpunished. “I’ve never had a friend as brave as you!” My stomach fell into my lap. Friend. I was afraid of that.

I planned to let Charles down easy. No way were we going to be friends. Finally meeting his eyes, I saw relief, acceptance and – myself. We were alike. This realization led to immediate humility. Somehow, being lead geek didn’t seem all that bad. We were all different in our own way and valuable because of it. My particular value to those like Karla was my willingness to share completed homework. Charles’ value was the complete trust he put in friendship.

Just as the bell was about to ring, a student messenger ran in to drop a piece of paper on Mr. Turnbuckle's desk. “Mr. Pettigrew, congratulations! You’ve been appointed AV Club president!”